“Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken.
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