“Election be hanged!” he exclaimed. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. ‘I have told you that I am entirely English. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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