"You are at the corner of your own
street. Good-bye, and many thanks!"
He sprung into the carriage, and it was gone like a flash. And the
Reverend Raymond Rashleigh, in the gray and dismal dawn of a wet
morning, was left all agape in the deserted street.
CHAPTER IX.
ONE WEEK AFTER.
On that eventful night of wind and rain upon which the Reverend Raymond
Rashleigh performed that mysterious midnight marriage, Mr. Carl Walraven
paced alone his stately library, lost in thought--painful thought; for
his dark brows were contracted, and the Grecian heads in the brackets
around him had no severer lines than those about his mouth.
While he paces up and down, up and down, like some restless ghost, the
library door opens, and his wife, magnificently arrayed, with jewels in
her raven hair, a sparkling fan dangling from her wrist, an odor of rich
perfume following her, appears before him like a picture in a frame.
She is superbly handsome in that rose-colored opera-cloak, and she knows
it, and is smiling graciously; but the swarth frown on her husband's
face only grows blacker as he looks at her.
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