“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess.
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