The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. In doing this, he chanced to raise his eyes and half fancied he beheld, shaded by a pillar at the extremity of the western aisle, the horrible countenance of the thief-taker. ‘Your niece, ma’am. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. Sheppard, pressing her hand to her temples. From the first I could see that neither believed my story.
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