He sat down. The account of the discovery of Sir Rowland's murder filled Winifred with alarm; but when she learnt what had befallen Thames—how he had been stricken down by the thief-taker's bludgeon, and left for dead, she uttered a piercing scream, fainted, and would have fallen, if Jack had not caught her in his arms. Is it an old ring?” he asked, returning it. The Return. “Dear me!” he said. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain.
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