No, none at all. You have shown an almost feverish anxiety to eliminate from your personal appearance all that reminded me of you —when we first met. I've sent for the priest. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. A shout was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head. Treading with noiseless step over the soft mould, they soon reached the building. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. Close behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his large bony hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance.
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