It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. " "This is folly," cried Jack, controlling himself by a powerful effort. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. "A little, Sir," replied the executioner, with a grim smile. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames.
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