While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. ‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. They troubled no one, and as long as they did not noise themselves abroad and make a nuisance of themselves in this Protestant country, no one troubled them. If only to say goodbye.
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