"But, though the storm has spared him, I will not. Wild had escaped. He would teach her all he knew of life so that if the Hand should ever reach his shoulder, she would be able to defend herself. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. She went further: she doubted that he was fully conscious of where he was. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands.
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