"His great convex pince-nez--I saw it, I recognised the kind--is for his poor ruined sight. And his poor right hand--!" "Ah!" Brydon winced--whether for his proved identity or for his lost fingers. Then, "He has a million a year," he lucidly added. "But he hasn't you." "And he isn't--no, he isn't--_you_!" she murmured, as he drew her to his breast.