"I think you're all bewitched," she cried. " "And who is its mother?" asked Jonathan, in an eager whisper. He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour; the same proud cast of features. Only the next of kin. What you would look upon as immorality is here merely an established custom, three thousand years older than Christianity, accepted with no more ado than that which would accompany you should you become a clerk in a shop. The Wastrel did not relish this.
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