At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. It was still profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth. "I have killed her," exclaimed Jack, dropping the bar,—"by your advice, Thames. " "May I trust you?" hesitated Thames.
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