The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. She saw me, and, Lady Ferringhall, I shall never forget her look as long as I live. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face.
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