In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues,—and far more instructive. He wished he had the time to solve this riddle, for it was a riddle, and four-square besides. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. 1. “Only you are the woman I love, and you are in trouble. I'll have a peep at him, if I die for it," she muttered, as she went out. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper.
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