Within ten minutes he had read much more than had greeted his eye. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. I used to go by the name Lucy Iovelli, which was my natural father’s surname. If the boy did not love the girl, why the devil had he dragged her into this marriage? Spurlock was a bit shaky bodily, but his brain was functioning clearly; and, it might be added, swiftly—as the brain always acts when confronted by a perplexing riddle. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast.
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