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tinued as Patricia’s smile of pity remained. “You suck them dry, and you laugh, you harlot! You laugh! You call them from the graves of their dead hopes and they come, the fools! They crawl to you, pleading for pity, and you stamp their faces in the dust! Well, here am I in answer to your call—but I do not crawl. I walk upright like a man again! And, like a man, I have come to destroy that which would destroy me!”

Throughout the tirade, which commenced on a low note and ended in something very near a scream, Patricia did not move. Althcugh the muzzle of the pistol bruised her flesh as Harley emphasised his periods with vicious prods, she had not flinch. Instead of being crushed by the violent condemnation, she experienced a curious exaltation. As Harley proceeded and his voice became shriller and more passionate, her colour rose until she seemed to blush, her eyes sparkled with a knowledge of triumph, her beauty flamed.

In this supreme moment of per11 and sacrifice, she knew that Harley loved her, that he would love her until the end, no matter What might be the outcome of this meeting. She knew that a touch of her hand, a word, would send him to his knees in tears begging for her love and her forgiveness.

It was not the real James Harley who threatened her. It was convention, the narrow conscience of a Christian civilisation which makes hypocrites of men. Harley himself, the primal man, stripped of the veneer of modermty, worshipped her still. His idolatry was in his eyes, in his words, in the violent movements of his arms which ached to hold and crush her.

Just one look, one word, and he would be upon his knees.

For a pregnant second she toyed with the idea, as they stood facing each other, tense, silent. Then she laughed, harshly, mockingly.