“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. “I am giving my understudy a chance. Wood," observed Jackson, in a slightly-sarcastic tone. Looking sullen, he released the handle and sat back. "Spare him!" cried Mrs, Sheppard, who fancied she had made some impression on the obdurate breast of the thief-taker,—"spare him! and I will forgive you, will thank you, bless you. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. The Reaper is not sated yet.
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