‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. It may be well, therefore, before proceeding farther, to describe it more minutely. “Home, of course,” she answered. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her.
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