Her cheeks flushed a dull red. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. “Your father is in the study and wishes to speak to you. "Remember!" cried Quilt, as he forced the captive along. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed,—the presence of the mangled corpse,—the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance was required,—all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect upon the young girl's imagination. .
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