Her cheeks flushed a dull red. Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. You shall not take me alive. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death.
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