"There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. She had not seen Ramage for ten or eleven days, and she was quite ready for a gossip with him. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. "And on my part, I shall not lift a hand to defend myself. ‘What was you wanting it for, may I ask?’ ‘You may not ask, for it is none of your affair,’ Melusine snapped. . I want to be myself. Shotbolt?" rejoined the executioner. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. Presently he heard her voice.
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