"You know my motive well enough," answered Jonathan. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. Had he not said as much at Remenham House? She allowed him to march her through the chapel without resistance. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper.
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