. . Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. She veiled her emotion by taking off his overcoat. This forthright dame was so excited, she could not keep still, but paced about the parlour much as Melusine had done earlier. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. ’ Gerald turned and came back to her. His lips parted in a rare smile. She saw Lucy darkening her doorstep and stood from the recliner. Not for me. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason.
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