On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. "Brother," cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light, and her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: "Brother," she cried, lifting her thin fingers towards Heaven, "as God shall judge me, I was wedded to that murdered man!" "A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!" "It is the truth," replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour.
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