Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. What you would look upon as immorality is here merely an established custom, three thousand years older than Christianity, accepted with no more ado than that which would accompany you should you become a clerk in a shop. After all, it is not long since that a Catholic nun in this country would have had to remain in hiding. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. I’ve—dreads. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me.
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