"Then I shall hold a rod over them both, and perhaps buy that miserable little Thornwick.

Mortimer would give the skin off his back for it." The thing that ought to be done had to be done, and Mary had done it--alas! to no purpose for the end desired: what was left her to do further?
She could think of nothing.

Sepia, like a moral hyena, must range her night.

She went to bed, and dreamed she was pursued by a crowd, hooting after her, and calling her all the terrible names of those who spread evil reports.

She woke in misery, and slept no more..