"Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. She prevaricated. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. Shocked, Melusine shot out of that blanketing warmth of sensation. Now it is—’ ‘What are you doing still here, missie, that’s what I’d like to know?’ demanded the man Trodger, sticking to his guns. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up.
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