"Then, by Heaven! you are a dead man!" replied Jack, cocking a pistol, and pointing it deliberately at his head. The Jew did not speak, but pointed to the audience-chamber. "Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son. Who's the lucky boy, Lucy?\" Lucy looked at her slippered feet. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before.
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