“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. I’m sorry. You don’t happen to know of any one, I suppose, who wants a nursery governess, or a clerk—without shorthand—or a tryer-on, or a copyist, or——” “For Heaven’s sake stop, Miss Pellissier,” he interrupted. 102 When he took her out, he was proud of her.
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