“If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. He looked at her guiltily. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia.
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