“She was very beautiful then, and for a moment Haverleigh felt a wave of his old love or passion sweeping over him as he stood looking at her; then the demon within whispered of that day in New York, and the words he had overheard, and he was himself again, her jailer and master rather than her lover and husband. “‘Ha, my pretty pet,’ said he, ‘and so you are mistress here, and can refuse or permit my presence as you please! So be it then, and if it suits you better to be sane, why sane you are to me at least. But, Mrs. Haverleigh, joking aside, I am glad to see you, and I think you greatly improved, and I come in peace and not in war, and if you incline to the latter I would advise a change in your programme. Upon my soul, you _are_ charming.’ ‘He drew her to him again, and she suffered his kisses in silence, and did not even shrink from him when in the presence of Celine he drew her down upon his knee, and called her his angel and dove. But the color had all faded from her cheeks, and left her very pale, while her hands shook so that she could scarcely manage her soup, when at last dinner was announced, and he led her to the dining salon. He was all attention to her, and a stranger watching him would have thought him the most devoted of husbands, but to Anna there was something disgusting and terrible in his manner which she knew was assumed as a means of deceiving the servants, who pitied their master for being so unfortunately married. “When dinner was over, and they had returned to the salon, Anna could restrain herself no longer, but going up to her husband startled him with the question: “‘There is something I must ask you, and for the love of heaven answer me truthfully. I have written home seven times since you left me here last October, but have never received a word in reply. Tell me, do you think my letters ever crossed the sea? Did mother ever get them?’ “For an instant the hot blood flamed up in Mr. Haverleigh’s face, and his eyes fell beneath the steady gaze fixed so searchingly upon him. Anna knew that her suspicions were correct, and that her letters had never gone to America, and the lie he told her did not in the least shake her belief. “‘Do I think your mother ever got them?’ He repeated, at last. ‘She must have gotten some of them, and some may have been lost. You gave them to Brunel?’ “Yes, always to Brunel. No one else would touch them, and I was never allowed to post one myself. Why not? Why am I treated so like a prisoner? Why do you keep me here? Surely I have been sufficiently punished for the foolish words you overheard. Forgive me for them. Try me again. Let me go with you to Paris, when you return. I shall die here or go mad. Don’t drive me to that. Oh, let me go away somewhere. Let me go home—back to mother.”