“Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. ‘And this is not all,’ went on the lady, evidently determined to disclose all her wrongs. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours.
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