The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. Gosse cursed him finely, of course, but there was nothing he could do. “Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner's breast. Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain.
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