If she marries that handsome ne'er - do-well , she 'll be a wretched woman all her days and none to pity her . '' The two moved away then , and Paul lay motionless , face downward on the sand , his lips pressed against Joan 's sweet , crushed rose . He felt no anger over Byron Lyall 's unsparing condemnation . He knew it was true , every word of it . He was a worthless scamp and always would be . He knew that perfectly well . It was in his blood . None of his race had ever been respectable and he was worse than them all . He had no intention of trying to reform because he could not and because he did not even want to . He was not fit to touch Joan 's hand . Yet he had meant to marry her ! But to spoil her life ! Would it do that ? Yes , it surely would . And if he were out of the way , taking his baleful charm out of her life , Connor Mitchell might and doubtless would win her yet and give her all he could not . The man suddenly felt his eyes wet with tears . He had never shed a tear in his daredevil life before , but they came hot and stinging now . Something he had never known or thought of before entered into his passion and purified it . He loved Joan . Did he love her well enough to stand aside and let another take the sweetness and grace that was now his own ?
Did he love her well enough XXXXX save her from the poverty-stricken , shamed life she must lead with him ?
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