" At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. ’ Quick anger flared, surpassing the fluttering hope. ‘And why not?’ ‘Because,’ Gerald said matter of factly, ‘convent-bred jeune demoiselles do not commonly know how to handle either pistols or daggers. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. Faugh!” She took up the last morsel of roll, and held it delicately between her long slim fingers. She turned there and beckoned. The night was now profoundly dark. I was raised in the Church. “I will take a carriage,” she said, “and fetch my things.
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