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The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. I—well, I borrowed Anna’s name. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. "Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas.
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