" "Never mind it, my dear Mrs. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. To his relief, she nodded. “You love some one else?” he repeated. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday. “Why did you ever let me love you? Why did you ever let me peep through the gates of Paradise? Oh! my God! I don’t begin to feel and realize this yet. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. Pausing at each door on the landing, Jack placed his ear to the keyhole, and listened intently.
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