Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. Sir John followed me to London and married me. We came on here at once. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. That dress! Only a man—and an unworldly one—would have permitted you to proceed on your adventure dressed in a gown thirty years out of date. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia.
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