"What _shall_ I do with her?" he asked himself, in a sort of
consternation. "I must keep her here until I get my affairs settled, and
that will be a week at the soonest. If we were safely _en route_ for
Havana, I should cease to fear. How will she receive me, I wonder?"
He tapped softly at the door. There was no response. The silence of the
grave reigned all through the lonely old house. He tapped again. Still
no answer. "Mollie!" he called. There was no reply. The next moment he
had inserted the key, turned it, and opened the prison door.
Dr. Oleander paused on the threshold and took in the picture. He could
see the low-lying, sunless afternoon sky, all gray and cheerless; the
gray, complaining sea creeping up on the greasy shingle; the desolate
expanse of road; the tongue of marshland; the strip of black pine
woods--all that could be seen from the window. The prison-room looked
drear and bleak; the fire on the hearth was smoldering away to black
ashes; the untasted meal stood on the table. Seated by the window, in a
drooping, spiritless way, as if never caring to stir again, sat bright
Mollie, the ghost of her former self.
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