He returned the locket without comment. Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel. Our ideal had fallen. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open. She was practically destitute of jewellery. Was she so fearful still? Roding shrugged and grimaced. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the Thames. .
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