In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. 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. “Will you come in, Sir John.
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