’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. I will give you a broad free life. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Besides, she had admitted her identity. From what she could tell, he truly had convinced himself that he was in love with her, but she knew that his ardor would fade eventually inasmuch as she knew John’s would. That “entirely English” comment was said just to provoke me. Having now fairly got out of Newgate for the second time, with a heart throbbing with exultation, he hastened to make good his escape. But it was very hard to follow. Now the pig knew where to find her—for it would not take long for a Catholic to locate the convent in Golden Square—even if she escaped him here.
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