Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. "At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand. I miss them so. I am fairly well hardened in iniquity—your iniquity, Annabel—but I decline to have a husband thrust upon me. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. But she was not there.
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