"Hell-hounds!" he cried; "release me!" At the same moment, Quilt Arnold rushed forward with such haste, that, stumbling over William Morgan, he precipitated him into the grave. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. Mischief bubbled up in her. Through this, his last trial, Jack's spirits never deserted him. Austin, or any man of similar dimensions, would have found wholly impossible.
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