In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Suppose—suppose a girl did want to start in life, start in life for herself—” She looked him frankly in the eyes. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. "They shall not harm you, my love!" she exclaimed. She could even think of what had happened. ‘So now you may safely cease your roundaboutation, and tell me what took you to Remenham House. I said as how I’d tell Mr Jarvis as he wanted to take you away.
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