Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. He appeared to be a stranger to the prisoner, and the sole motive of his visit, curiosity. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality. She would end alone.
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