It grew clear to her that throughout all her wild raid for independence she had done nothing for anybody, and many people had done things for her. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. Wherever I saw him, I should pick him out as a man designed by nature to plan and accomplish the wonderful escapes he has effected. “I’m still inside you. While I am talking about your friends, I feel—I think you ought to know how I look at it. This lady is my wife, and I have a right to be here.
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