Darrell. CHAPTER VII. " "I hear," said Sir Rowland, moodily. She received into her slack grasp the pistol and dagger, only half aware of taking them. ’ ‘Willingly?’ ‘Parbleu, what a person you think me. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. Under another name,—not my own hateful one,—I will strive to distinguish myself in some foreign service, and win myself a reputation, or perish honourably. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. “Well, you certainly did very well at tea,” she remarked.
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