‘You are really not helping matters, my friend. She sat with him in the courtyard after serving him 20 spiced wine. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. Man or woman. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home.
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