‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. Gentlemen! a glass of brandy will be no bad finish to our meal. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. I don’t believe any one could have traced us here.
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