“You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. ‘How so?’ he asked, and she noted that he allowed his pistol to dangle a little from his fingers. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. Pole coolies came joggling along with bobbing blocks of jade—white jade, splashed and veined with translucent emerald green. She sat perfectly still, however. “Did it seem like I was in pain to you?” She smirked. I have said that I am but a nun now. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. He had often read about it, and once he had incorporated it in a story, that invisible force which sent men to prison and to the gallows, when a tongue controlled would have meant liberty indefinite.
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