The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. ’ The door closed behind them both and Gerald was alone with Melusine. She sat herself upon the bed. I will shed no more blood. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. That might happen on her birthday—in August. She was asked to meet him after his game Saturday afternoon. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant.
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