" "For whom, Sir?" inquired Charcam. She blushed prettily, and in a moment regained command of her tongue. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. “You’re. Again silence. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. The two young fools laughed until they cried. Perhaps it was loneliness. ” “Yes, yes.
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