148 “Sure. I’m the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door. I saw her come out from the flat buildings two minutes before we entered it last night. "At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. Before you have lived—” He became darkly prophetic.
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