“Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by night. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions.
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