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 "My God, my child will die!" exclaimed Vere, the feelings of nature overcoming, even in his breast, the sentiments of selfish policy; "look up, Isabella—look up, my child—come what will, you shall not be the sacrifice—I will fall myself with the consciousness I leave you happy—My child may weep on my grave, but she shall not—not in this instance—reproach my memory." He called a servant.—"Go, bid Ratcliffe come hither directly."

During this interval, Miss Vere became deadly pale, clenched her hands, pressing the palms strongly together, closed her eyes, and drew her lips with strong compression, as if the severe constraint which she put upon her external feelings extended even to her muscular organization.—Then raising her head, and drawing in her breath strongly ere she spoke, she said, with firmness,—"Father, I consent to the marriage."

"You shall not—you shall not, my child