“I love your sister. Perhaps that other boy who visited you backstage at the concert. ” He fancied that she was yielding, but her eyes fell once more upon that fatal envelope, and her tone when she spoke was colder than ever. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think.
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