"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. He was astonished. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. Part 8 “Why should I ever come back?” she said to herself, as she went down the staircase.
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