In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. She held out both her hands. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition. “What about blood banks? Have you ever tried them?” “I don’t just take blood, John. I consented to become Mrs. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. She made a quick movement, and the hand fell away.
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