A shaft of searing heat plunged downward. Arrived at the secret door, she grasped the lever that opened it and placed the lantern on the floor. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. ’ Fury rippled again. "Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her.
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