" CHAPTER XXV. I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve treated me so well. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. In Darrell's open features, frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. "Hold!" cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; "they are nothing to me. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. I must break open the door. ’ She moved quickly to the nearest bookcase, and listened intently to the sound of Jack’s voice. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. She was not a Christian woman.
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