So her
body's beauty is but a poem written by God about her soul."
Glyde sat up and looked at him across the fire. "I know you. There is but
one man who has loved her as you do. You are her poet. You are Senhouse."
Senhouse nodded. "That is my name. You know her, then?" His face glowed
darkly. "You have known her--you!"
"I saw her four months ago. I was in servitude in a house where she too
was made a servant. For her sake, I tell you again, I downed Ingram."
Senhouse said sharply, "It was for your own. You aren't fit to talk to
her. You have unclean lips. You don't hurt her, for you cannot. You hurt
yourself infinitely. Why, a dog would do as you did, and possibly be
right; but you, not being a dog, have broken your own rules. You have
trodden on your own honour, and, like the dull fool that you are, come out
wrapped in your silly self-esteem as if it was a flag. I wish that you
could see yourself as I see you--or rather I hope you never may; for if
you did you would see no reason to live." The words, frozen with scorn,
cut like hailstones. The guest cowered, with the whip about his face.
Senhouse rose.
"Follow me," he said.
Glyde also rose to his feet, and, as if he was giddy, looked blankly about
him.
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