‘But you said she was looking for proof. ” She paused again. I am. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. They put her down, and she leaped at them; she smote a helmet to the ground. The more her thoughts dwelt upon the subject, the more convinced she was that she could not go to any one for help; she would have to solve the riddle by her own efforts, by some future experience. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman.
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