I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. Sheppard, as a storm of furious voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs; "they are coming!—they are coming!—fly!—to the roof! to the roof. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. I should have gone mad without it. Indeed I must. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. Well, after all, he seemed to be turning the subject. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof.
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