Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“What’s that?” gasped Zuleika. “Didn’t he tell you? He told me. And I warrant he told you, too.” “He died for love of me: d’you hear?” “Ah, you’d like people to think so, wouldn’t you? Does a man who loves a woman give away the keepsake she gave him? Look!” Katie leaned forward, pointing to her ear-rings. “He loved ME,” she cried. “He put them in with his own hands--told me to wear them always. And he kissed me--kissed me good-bye in the street, where every one could see. He kissed me,” she sobbed. “No other man shall ever do that.” “Ah, that he did!” said a voice level with Zuleika. It was the voice of Mrs. Batch, who a few moments ago had opened the door for her departing guests. “Ah, that he did!” echoed the guests. “Never mind them, Miss Dobson,” cried Noaks, and at the sound of his voice Mrs. Batch rushed into the middle of the road, to gaze up. “I love you. Think what you will of me. I--” “You!” flashed Zuleika. “As for you, little Sir Lily Liver, leaning out there, and, I frankly tell you, looking like nothing so much as a gargoyle hewn by a drunken stone-mason for the adornment of a Methodist Chapel in one of the vilest suburbs of Leeds or Wigan, I do but felicitate the river-god and his nymphs that their water was saved to-day by your cowardice from the contamination of your plunge.” “Shame on you, Mr. Noaks,” said Mrs. Batch, “making believe you were dead--”