Royston was a brute. The only decent thing he ever
did was dying! She has been an awfully unhappy woman. I know you will be
sorry for that."
"Neither glad nor sorry. She is nothing to me. Not because she dealt me a
blow after a very unfair fashion, but because she is nothing in herself
that I could really care for. She has no delicate sensibilities, no fine
perceptions; she is incapable of constancy. Don't you understand? She has
no capacity to feel."
Briscoe had a look of extenuating distress--a sentiment of loyalty to his
fair guest. "Oh, well, now, she is devoted to her child--a most loving
mother."
"Certainly, she may grow in grace--let us hope that she will! And now
suppose we talk a little about that wonderful magazine shot-gun you have
so often offered to lend me. This is my chance to prove its values--the
only time in the last five years that I could spare a week from the
office."
He rose and turned with his easy, lithe grace towards the gun-rack, but
Briscoe sat still in pondering dismay.
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