"This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred. Looking for something, or someone, probably. "But, however, it may turn out, I disown you. \"May I come in?\" His bravado was increasing. S. Rowland felt himself sinking beneath the powerful grasp of his enemy. It was painful to want him so much. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. It had been her home for hundreds of years. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him.
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