Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. He had remarkably skilful fingers and a love of detailed processes, and he had become one of the most dexterous amateur makers of rock sections in the world. The one problem was that it didn’t fly. It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. He lifted her from the floor. He returned the locket without comment. It seemed to emanate from the back of the house. McClintock does it; and he knows why. But I don’t suppose you can understand. “I am bored,” she said abruptly. 1715.
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