’ The dagger was in her hand. Presently she was again in that dreadful tavern of the Thénardiers. Stanley changed his key. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. On her lapel was an ivory button, bearing the words “Votes for Women. Drowning, her brain dizzy, Melusine clung to the source of the flooding warmth, her hands, no longer forcibly held, moving without will about the firm back. “Then we must try and make London endurable for you,” he remarked cheerfully.
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