But still she knew they were not right, and at times they became a horrible obsession as of something waiting for her round the corner. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. Old Bethlehem, or Bedlam,—every trace of which has been swept away, and the hospital for lunatics removed to Saint George's Field,—was a vast and magnificent structure. “Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?” Now indeed Sir John was moved. “Just leave them with me for now, Clotilde. ” “Sir John is an ass!” he declared. A lesson learned. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock.
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