"Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. " Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across his brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. She began to act. Believe me, it will be better by far that you should consent to marry me.
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