"I knew his poor mother, and for her sake I'll not see this done," cried John Dump. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. ” “I am frightened of Sir John,” he said, “but I suggest that we risk it. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream.
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