She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you.
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