" "Make good your assertions," cried Trenchard, furiously, "or——" "To the proof," interrupted the stranger, calmly. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. " "You're strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland," said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him. " "No. They send you every good wish. “Is it your maid?” he asked.
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