‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. Buck up. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. But your role would have been to go about saying, ‘I beg your pardon’ in a reproving tone to things you understood quite well in your heart and saw no harm in. —Well, then, my dear," he added aloud, "do you still entertain the strong attachment you did to Captain Darrell?" Winifred's cheeks glowed with blushes, and fixing her eyes, which flashed with resentment, upon the questioner, she said: "I have promised to answer your question, and I will do so. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts.
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