” “What’s our lot?” asked her sister. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. 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. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow.
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