He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. "My enemy," replied her son. Let me see my child, if he is really here?" "Behold him!" returned Trenchard, taking Thames (who had been a mute, but deeply-interested, witness of the scene) by the hand, and leading him towards her. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. “Fancy stabbing a man for jealousy!” she thought.
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