“Turn me. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. One marked difference between the poor outcast, who, oppressed by poverty, and stung by shame, had sought temporary relief in the stupifying draught,—that worst "medicine of a mind diseased,"—and those of the same being, freed from her vices, and restored to comfort and contentment, if not to happiness, by a more prosperous course of events, was exhibited in the mouth. Are you satisfied?’ Grudgingly, Jack Kimble took back the coins. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own.
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