Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. " "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. The elements were wrathful as their passions. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. Here, it might be anything at all. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. She had never been there before at that hour, in that light, and it seemed to her as if she came to it all for the first time.
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