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Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. But if I escape, my gratitude—" "Pshaw!" interrupted Jonathan, scornfully. She had lost it. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. . Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. He returned the locket without comment. She gloried in it: he needed her.
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