‘I have told you, a whip it is nothing. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. I can. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. She awoke and found herself home amid a pile of three bodies, one of which she recognized as a former denizen of the household. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. But, when? When do they go?’ ‘Today, miss.
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