"My portrait!" echoed Jack. Her tone was hoarse with passion. All right really. "Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence. She removed the belt and drew down his zipper. Cursing under his breath, Gerald moved swiftly across and dragged her away. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this.
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