I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. Above her head was an aura of white fire. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Perhaps you will meet him someday. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. "You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance.
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