There are also the letters which were scattered about Wild's room after the murder of Sir Rowland. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. Two shots were fired at him by Jonathan; one of which passed through his hat, and the other through the fleshy part of his arm; but he made good his retreat. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again.
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