She was too late. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. ‘So Leonardo has taught me. I meant mischief. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. That’s my advice to you. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door.
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