How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. 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. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. ' It is signed JACK SHEPPARD. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly. For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide.
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