Publisher's Synopsis
Cassandra Raynor stood on the terrace of her great house, looking overthe sweep of country stretching to right and left, and in her heart was thedeadliest of all weariness, -the weariness of repletion. It seemed at thatmoment the bitterest cross that she had nothing left for which to wish, thateverything good which the world could give was hers already, and had lefther cold.The stately old house was hers, with its treasures of old-worldfurnishings, the same furnishings which had ministered to generations deadand gone, and would minister to others yet to come. It would have beenconsidered sacrilege to stamp the individuality of the chatelaine of an houron those historic halls. The distant stretch of country was part of her estate, but the sight of it brought no thrill to Cassandra's veins. Her jaded eyes hadwearied of the familiar landscape, as they had wearied of the interior of thehouse, in which she seemed more a tenant than a mistres
