"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. I swear to you, solemnly swear to you, I will save your son's life, nay more, will befriend him, will place him out of the reach of his enemies, if you consent to become my wife. Annabel had been here then. Superstition is the Chinese Reaper. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. And yet, the doctor recalled an expression of the girl's: that it was not a dissipated face, only troubled. I mean Miss Charvill no harm. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot.
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