“Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters. Always. Brendon and I are great chums,” he went on nervously. ‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned. A strange betrothal!—the primal idea of which was escape! The girl, intent upon abrogating for ever all legal rights of the father in the daughter, of rendering innocuous the thing she had now named the Terror: the boy, seeking selfcrucifixion in expiation of his transgression, changing a peccadillo into damnation! It was easy for Ruth to surrender to the idea, for she believed she was loved; and in gratitude it was already her determination to give this boy her heart's blood, drop by drop, if he wanted it. You know, I’ve done no work at all this afternoon.
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