As to Mrs. "Brother," cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light, and her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: "Brother," she cried, lifting her thin fingers towards Heaven, "as God shall judge me, I was wedded to that murdered man!" "A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!" "It is the truth," replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch. You know you do, Annabel. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. “I never saw Courtlaw with her—never heard her speak of him. Glancing towards him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. The Widgett method of thought puzzled her weakly rhetorical mind.
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