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The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. "I am not, by Heaven!" replied Sheppard, firmly. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. ‘You know perfectly well that she is the daughter of the Comtesse de St Erme. He was not used to not getting his way. Wood; "that's the surest way!" "No! no! give it me!" vociferated Wood, snatching the pistol, and rushing to the door, against which he placed his back. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. He was vaguely uneasy; he knew not what about. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun.
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