He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. “There ought to be a Censorship of Books. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. He did not speak for a moment. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe.
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