When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. "Rowland," she said, in a faint voice, "I have not many minutes to live. "Tell me frankly, and speak under your breath. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue.
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