She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. Coarse as were the ruffian's notions of feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention.
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