‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. ‘But she will not shoot you,’ Melusine told him flatly. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped.
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