’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows. You fell in at once with her quixotic and damnable scheme of foisting her reputation and her follies upon your shoulders whilst she marries a rich man and commences all over again a life of selfish pleasure. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. Then the storm broke. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. “Come on in. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest.
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