Drummond nodded. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. “Can you not understand? It is of no use your taking my identity and all the burden of my iniquities upon your dear shoulders if I am to be recognized the moment I show my face in London. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. Manning leaned forward on the table, talking discursively on the probable brilliance of their married life.
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