Muffling up his face, Jack turned away; but he had not proceeded many steps when he heard a man reading aloud an account of his escapes from a newspaper. At the sight of her he became rigid and a singularly bright shade of pink. "Everything has prospered with him in an extraordinary manner. Her eyes were wide and bright. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely.
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