He waited until that peculiarly quick and tight and cold settling of his nerves told of brain control over heart.

Yet he was conscious of subdued hate, of a righteous and terrible wrath held in abeyance for the sake of his sister's name.

And he regretted that he had imperiously demanded of himself this assurance of Lorna's wantonness.
Then he stole forward, closer and closer.

He heard a low voice of dalliance, a titter, high-pitched and sweet--sweet and wild.

That was not Lorna's laugh.