"I will not submit to be thus interrogated," said Winifred, angrily. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister. I asked him—to take me away. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. “I’ll bring it to-morrow.
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