Across the cloud of this death gleamed, certainly, the flashing of Sepia's eyes, or the softly infolding dawn of her smile, but only, the next hour, nay, the next moment, to leave all darker than before.

Precious is the favor of any true, good woman, be she what else she may; but what is the favor of one without heart or faith or self-giving?
Yet is there testimony only too strong and terrible to the demoniacal power, enslaving and absorbing as the arms of the kraken, of an evil woman over an imaginative youth.

Possibly, did he know beforehand her nature, he would not love her, but, knowing it only too late, he loves and curses; calls her the worst of names, yet can not or will not tear himself free; after a fashion he still calls love, he loves the demon, and hates her thralldom.

Happily Tom had not reached this depth of perdition; Sepia was prudent for herself, and knew, none better, what she was about, so far as the near future was concerned, therefore held him at arm's length, where Tom basked in a light that was of hell--for what is a hell, or a woman like Sepia, but an inverted creation?
His nature, in consequence, was in all directions dissolving.

He drank more and more strong drink, fitting fuel to such his passion, and Sepia liked to see him approach with his eyes blazing.