It was empty. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her.
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