After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. "And, now,—to Newgate.
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