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CHAPTER XXXI. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. And then she fell into a musing about Capes. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. But then the features changed. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. There was a maiden aunt who lived in the North who might let her live there for a few weeks until she disappeared. Ramage back his forty pounds. I think we will soon, though. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped.
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