She had better escape if she can. But at the word “home” she turned again. There are some papers I have to look through to-night—important papers. I jumped then—I was not even shaken. This foster child’s name was Mary Lucia Iovelli, and we have photographic documents of a woman who looks exactly like you, dear. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. He did not like it. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. . “I will MAKE you love me! Until he has faded—faded into a memory. .
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