He allowed his irons and clothes to be taken off without resistance. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. "I cannot—will not suffer you to remain here. "Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. “What do you mean, hanging round with my wife?” he answered fiercely. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood.
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