"Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. Both arm-chairs had been moved a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. Michelle and Missy chatted vigorously in the front seat, oblivious to both the world and other cars on the road. Entranced, he stared at the name. Her anger died and she eyed him. For a few minutes he kept them at bay. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood.
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