CHAPTER XIX. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. I’m sorry I ruined dinner. She would write to Gerald. “You did not wish to see him particularly this evening, then?” Anna hesitated. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. It was better even than the hymn-singing. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. ‘I don’t want a list of all the nuns resident in your wretched convent.
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