" "Accident or not," rejoined Sheppard; "you're no longer pall of mine. “We should get out of here. They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. I'd have got something nice. “What? She replied, still hazy. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. He never retires to rest till daybreak—if at all. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life.
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