“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. And their monasteries and convents are still not officially permitted to exist here. I hope—I am sure that he did not see me. A curious silence ensued. In you—if you can love me—there is salvation. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. My own impression is that he already knows.
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