"I'm glad to hear it, that's all," he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. But he was not a father one could make much of. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. He frowned. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise and fly.
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