"Release him first—and I will disclose it!" cried Lady Trafford; "on my soul, I will!" "Speak then!" returned Rowland. Within ten minutes he had read much more than had greeted his eye. ‘But I am perfectly serious,’ he returned in a voice of protest. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. It is abominable—” “What is the use of keeping up this note of indignation, Ann Veronica? Here I am! I am your lover, burning for you. Men do not understand constancy as women do. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion.
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