Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. ‘But you are idiot. We LIKED each other well enough. "See the devil!—not I," cried Wood impatiently. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. His efforts at self-destruction were, however, prevented. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it.
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