” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. CHAPTER XXXII. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. She laughed a little bitterly. “I am sure, Anna,” she said, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. "What is your name?" "Ruth.
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