‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. ’ She inclined her head, looking up at him through her lashes, and passing a tongue lightly over her lips. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. From time to time, however, he was baffled. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. I could never make you understand.
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