The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. The latch came with a weak click. It had been her home for hundreds of years. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries.
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