Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. CHAPTER XXII. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. The second look told me I was wrong. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters. Now do not make me any more arguments, but tell me at once where that pig is gone.
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