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Updated: June 19, 2025
The truth was, however, that Miss Landale tripped along through the damp wooded path as gaily as if she were going to visit her living lover instead of his granite tomb; and that in lieu of evil omens a hundred fantastically sentimental thoughts floated through her brain, as merrily and irresponsibly as the motes in the long shafts of brilliancy that cleaved, sword-like through the mists, upon her from out the east.
Exactly one week before the disaster, which was supposed to have befallen Mademoiselle Molly de Savenaye on Scarthey sands, the acting Lord of Pulwick, if one may so term Mr. Rupert Landale, had received a letter, the first reading of which caused him a vivid annoyance, followed by profound reflection.
Malo There, if you like " he hesitated, embarrassed. "There!" echoed Lady Landale with her eyes still fixed upon his downcast face "If I like what?" "We could leave you " Her bosom rose and fell quickly with stormy breaths. "Alone, moneyless, in a strange town that is well and kindly thought!" she said. Whence had come to her this strange power of feeling pain?
These people want to know so much!" "I know nothing of what has happened this morning, that you speak of as if the whole world must know," retorted Lady Landale coolly. "You are all hatching plots and sitting on secrets, but nobody confides in me. It seems then, that you expected Mademoiselle, my sister, here for some purpose and that you regret she did not come; may I ask for an explanation?"
There came a warning rattle at the door handle, and Molly, disengaging herself softly from her betrothed's embrace, but still retaining his arm, turned to witness the entrance of Miss O'Donoghue and Mr. Landale.
He and René had laid the dead man upon the bed that had been occupied by his murderer, and composed as decently as might be the hideous corpse of him who had been the handsomest of his race. René had given his master the tale of all he knew himself, and Sir Adrian had ordered the boat to be prepared, determined to convey Lady Landale at once from the scene of so much horror.
In the high days of the Revolutionary movement across the water, Adrian Landale was a dreamy student living in one of those venerable Colleges on the Cam, the very atmosphere of which would seem sufficient to glorify the merits of past ages and past institutions.
Landale snarled at him: "Shoot, fool shoot!" And straining forward, himself drew a pistol from the man's belt, cocked it and thrust it into his grasp.
Landale had gauged his aunt's temperament correctly enough. To one whose ruling passion was pride of family, this mockery of a consecrated family custom, this heirloom destined to carry down a record of degradation into future generations, was an insult to the name only to be explained to her first indignation by deliberate malice or insanity.
Landale remained the lord of this place, I should have been left to die in my prison or at least have remained there until this spring, for it seems there is peace again, and the Tower of Liverpool is empty now." "Voyons, voyons, conte moi cela, René," said Molly, turning her face, beautifully glowing from the caress of the keen air, eagerly to her companion.
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