But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. The will to live had returned. "Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—"too late!—oh!" Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room. Only she is not Madame Valade at all. He suddenly realized that he could not keep you for ever in this part of the world; so he sends you to your aunt. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back.
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