"My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Acne sprayed her cheeks in a fine red spatter where it intermingled with brown freckles.
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