The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. “You promised faithfully to be there,” he said slowly. There's our young friend upstairs. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. I've no doubt he's as honest as either of you. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards.
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