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‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Perhaps I may borrow yours one day?’ ‘Lucilla, you wretch,’ burst from the captain. “I do not wish to make impertinent inquiries into your private life. There was no rush. Let us be gone.
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