Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. Under her feet lay intricate mosaics, and each warm hall was festooned in tapestries. Her tone was icy. Now the pig knew where to find her—for it would not take long for a Catholic to locate the convent in Golden Square—even if she escaped him here. All the linen was new and stamped with the mark of Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. I don’t believe in the faults.
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