"A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. " "You shall—you shall," answered Jack. Gerald would not marry her even with a dowry. Yet there was nothing for her to do. The grim mockery of it!—those South Sea loafers, taking advantage of Enschede's Christianity and imposing upon him, accepting his money and medicines and laughing behind his back! No doubt they made the name a byword and a subject for ribald jest in the waterfront bars. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said. Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead.
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