"It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. There it was—to be borrowed. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. But these fears, like those he had recently experienced, speedily vanished, and he prepared to return to the roof, congratulating himself that owing to the opportune falling of the bricks, he had in all probability escaped serious injury. “But your sister,” he said.
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