"You are my prisoner, Jack. God! I have cheated myself into a belief that the boy perished! And now my worst fears are realized —he lives!" "As yet," returned Jonathan, with fearful emphasis. That glove is still preserved. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them everywhere. He had nothing more to say either to her or to Spurlock. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically.
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