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She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. The evenings were dulcet and soft. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. He was asleep. Of course. . The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. The Supper at Mr. He seemed like a very intelligent doctor and not at all like a snooty archbishop. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. It must be some days before you can arrange for her to make an identification. “No doubt about that, I fancy,” Meddoes answered lightly.
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