Neither of these wards had beds, and the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the oaken floor. ‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. He comforted himself, however, with the certainty which he felt of capturing his prey on the Sunday. In a moment they were in the street outside. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. Jiggle-joggle, jiggle-joggle…! For each pause she was grateful. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper.
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