"Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. What was to happen now? She turned to Roding quickly. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above.
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