“You have forgotten. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. Small blame to her. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. We'll have him yet. And shall their wretched offspring live to blight my hopes, and blast my fame? Never!" And, with these words, he grasped Wood by the throat, and, despite his resistance, dragged him to the very verge of the platform. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. You go cheer him up. Courtlaw stood up. That's a most damnable lie; and when she finds out, 'tis then she will not forgive.
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