“I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. To settle things, you know. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. She realized that he was the sort of man one does not think much about at dinners. Brendon told him the name of a distant restaurant and sprang in by her side.
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