CHAPTER XX

MAN THE BRUTE AND WOMAN THE ANGEL “At last, Myra! Was the man away, or dead, or what? Give me a drink! I’m parched!” The Englishman half raised himself from a shabby little couch which groaned and creaked with his weight, and held out his hand to her. His cheeks were blanched and thin, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. The fever through which he had passed had played strange havoc with him. She stood still for a moment to recover her breath; she had run up seven flights of steep stairs without a pause. Then she…