"Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. "Sit down, and enjoy yourself. “You shall,” she said. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. Flowers, theatre boxes, carriages, the “open sesame” to the whole world of pleasure. ‘But I have been perfectly honest about that. “Anyway, enough about that. And see!" he added, as the figures drew back, and the lights disappeared; "it's a false alarm. But I’m not a slut either, if that’s what you think. See what you have made of me.
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