What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. ’ ‘You need not be a nun,’ he said, leaning towards her. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. He was a fool. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair.
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