"Would you tell that villain what you suspect?
Would you arm him with another weapon for my undoing ?" "Ha!" said she.

"You admit so much, then ?" And she laughed disdainfully.
Then with a sudden sternness, a sudden nobility almost in the motherhood which she put forward--"Rotherby is my son," she said, "and I'll not have my son the victim of your follies as well as of your injustice.

We may curb the one and the other yet, my lord." And she swept out, fan going briskly in one hand, her long ebony cane swinging as briskly in the other.
"O God!" groaned Ostermore, and sat down heavily.
Mr.Caryll helped himself copiously to snuff.

"I think," said he, his voice so cool that it had an almost soothing influence, "I think your lordship has now another reason why you should go no further in this matter." "But if I do not--what other hopes have I?
Damn me! I'm a ruined man either way." "Nay, nay," Mr.Caryll reminded him.

"Assuming even that you are correctly informed, and that his Grace of Wharton is determined to move against you, it is not to be depended that he will succeed in collecting such evidence as he must need.