‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. ’ Roding looked struck. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life.
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