Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. "That's a good story, lad. Great stone staircases leading no one knew whither, and long gloomy passages, impressed the occasional visitor with the idea that he was traversing a building of vast extent; and, though this was not the case in reality, the deception was so cleverly contrived that it seldom failed of producing the intended effect. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow.
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