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The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. " "Loved me! You!" "I loved you," continued Jonathan, "and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire. " Jonathan gave utterance to a torrent of imprecations.
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