"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. An iron fillet secured the socket of the bolt and the box of the lock to the main post of the doorway. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. ” She thought of her father, and with an effort dismissed him from her mind. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity.
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