’ ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest. No window. " Ideas are never born; they are suggested; they are planted seeds. I am sure he would go with you. The path he had selected conducted him to his mother's humble dwelling. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Spurling attended him as his nurse, and, under her care, he speedily revived. He was going to tell me something— and he shut up. He played variations on this theme for the better part of an hour. That is all I ask.
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