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A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. Mr. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. Rhea went down, screeching and clawing at the air for the sword, which clanked heavily on the ground. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said.
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