Darting down Field-lane, Jack struck into a labyrinth of streets on the left; but though he ran as swiftly as he could, he was not unperceived. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. CHAPTER IX. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. She drank it obediently. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. It was time to get up.
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