But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. " "We won't trust you, my youngster," answered the janizary. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. To perdition with them all. " "You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. Meysey Hill—never your wife. “And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava.
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