“Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. Here, Jem, take the gentleman's horse to the stable—see him dressed and fed directly. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate.
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