Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. "Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. You don’t know. Wild of the circumstance. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him.
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