They did not speak until he had driven past town limits and were on the highway. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. "Seize this oar," vociferated the waterman. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. Here's a couple in hand. The first stroke appeared to arouse all the vindictive passions of Jonathan. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. But the love of life prevailed over his fears.
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