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From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. But before the child could be committed to her care, it was wrested from the carpenter by Rowland. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. . ” “You have her face and figure,” he muttered. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. In this room was my ruin begun: in this room it should be ended. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then.
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