“But—your people!” she gasped. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. Her hair was gathered up behind, in a sort of pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she wore a muslin cap, and pinners with crow-foot edging. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. Find your man, that’s the rule. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. That would be an unkind twist of fate. I ought never to have thought of it.
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