And in the vestry was the sword of monsieur le major. ‘Take this. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. 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. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable.
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