"You do love me?" "God knows how much!" Suddenly he laid his head on her shoulder. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. It took my breath away. She felt she had to go on. She had found that proof. E. "Dead!" echoed the boy. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child.
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