175 “Before you tell me the whole story,” she emphasized the penultimate word, “just let me do something for you. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. "For the caption!" replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols from his pockets. “Are these ordinary sapphires?” she said. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. “Let me see,” she said to herself, trying to control a slight sinking of the heart, “I am going to take a room in a lodging-house because that is cheaper.
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