Besides, my husband has shares in Sir John’s company. . ’ ‘Eh bien, what then?’ Emile sidled closer. She snatched about in her mind. “Eight, Cavendish Square. ” “Think not,” that young man remarked laconically. Nice lady. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy.
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