"But, though the storm has spared him, I will not. When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?" he added abruptly. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. I’ll be waiting for you outside. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. “Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. A sudden knock at the door startled her. "It is never too late. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him.
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