Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand. A fever of shame ran through her being. " "Oh, no,—no," replied Mrs. ” She whispered. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. It was no easy matter to determine her age, for, though she still retained a certain youthfulness of appearance, she had many marks in her countenance, usually indicating the decline of life, but which in her case were, no doubt, the result of constant and severe indisposition. The boy had all kinds of opportunity; but it's the old story of father making it too easy. She was not Madame Melusine Valade.
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