Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. “By Jove!” he said, “there is something direct about you. "I will at once convince you of the truth of my assertions, and ascertain whether the enemy really is at hand. So here is your chance, Mademoiselle Charvill. "I'm only a benighted fool; and having said that, I have said everything. Then you may have a bit of a chance. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. In a few minutes after the delivery of this note he will be in Newgate. I'd like to shake you until your bones rattled; but the bones of a Roundhead wouldn't rattle to any purpose.
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