" "Constance alive? Impossible!" ejaculated Trenchard. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily. " "You daren't use it. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Do you know, Lady Ferringhall, I am proud that your sister permits me to call myself her friend. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. “Holcroft,” he remarked, “in bald language, and with the usual limitations of his clouded intellect, has still given some slight expression to the consternation which I believe I may say is general amongst us. You are nothing of the sort. B.
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