We went to the Embassy. “It jars. ‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Ramage came for her at her lodgings, and she met him graciously and kindly as a queen who knows she must needs give sorrow to a faithful liege. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders.
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