He installed Anna in a comfortable easy chair, and placed his own between her and the door. “Annabel;” he moaned. The Storm VII. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. Gerald would certainly have demanded back his sword. Not far from the entrance, on the left, was a sort of screen, or partition-wall, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, formed of thick oaken planks riveted together by iron bolts, and studded with broad-headed nails. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time.
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