” Her hand fell back into her lap. ‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so.
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