" "What proof have you that I am?"—was the return bolt. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance. She kicked him in the shin, trying to knock him off his feet. Decidedly this was imbecile. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth. He was an imaginative young man. "They will kill me, if they find me, as they would have killed my husband and child. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. She had called the police on them anonymously.
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