“Your mother was a Gypsy. You make me angry, and I lie. He knew she had been weeping. ‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. ‘What we have to find out is whether or not the wretched female is in fact Lord Charvill’s granddaughter. E. But that doesn’t alter the fact that there IS innocence. So I come suppliant. I’ve been waiting all my life to get out of this town. ‘And so you sneak back,’ she threw at him, ‘like the jackal that you are. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love.
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