A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. “What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?” “There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous little shudder. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. If such a thing in connexion with him had been possible they would have declared that he was in a towering rage.
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