Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him. And the woollen-draper departed. With a faint view of overtaking them the pursuer urged his steed to a quicker pace. “What did it matter?” she cried. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. Turning now, and running down the terrace.
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