"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. How could she tell him of the evil that drew her and drew her, as a needle to the magnet?—the fascinating evil that even now, escaped as it was, went on distilling its poison in her mind? "Yes, yes!" said the doctor. Prior to the great adventure, her mirrors had been the still pools in the rocks after the ebb. She would never again be lonely. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Stop it. Something changed for her. "Most persons would have guessed my meaning.
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