" "Sir," said the chief turnkey, indignantly. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland.
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