‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. It was true.
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