Then the storm broke. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. "Don't go, I beg of you!" she implored. Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought.
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