The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. ’ A wary look came over her face, and Roding intervened.
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