Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain. Her fingers rested upon his. Your life is like a funeral March. Hers were less noble, yet stately. She was still fully dressed; so all she had to do was to pause before the mirror and give her hair a few pats. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle.
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