But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing. The pouting cherry lips were slightly parted and the very faintest of panting breaths, together with the quick rise and fall of an alluring bosom, betrayed her fear. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. They sold him the whisky. ‘Odd sort of a nun. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. Doubts began to rise up all about her, plucking at her confidence.
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