"Brother," cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light, and her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: "Brother," she cried, lifting her thin fingers towards Heaven, "as God shall judge me, I was wedded to that murdered man!" "A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!" "It is the truth," replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. I never forgive an injury. The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica.
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