Uttering a terrible imprecation, Blueskin placed the knife between his teeth, and endeavoured to seize the poor woman by the throat. ’ ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest. How many nuns were there in England who might have occasion to spy on Lady Bicknacre’s ballroom? The presence of the French refugees took on greater significance. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. "I had no thought of injuring your wife, and would have died rather than commit so foul a crime. Wood laughed louder than ever.
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