"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. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. It is not possible for us to be on friendly terms with a young man who has been seen in a public place, having supper alone with your sister after midnight.
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