" "Very well, Sir," replied Austin, rising and walking towards them. "Those tears will do you good. You can have no shecrets from me. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. Three times she escaped. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. But he tells them that I am a spy. I believe I’m in love.
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