“We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked. Here's a couple in hand. Here, turnkey. Tell me why you ran away from the convent. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the least known quarter of Paris. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun.
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