Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. “I believe,” he said stiffly, “that these are the apartments of Miss Pellissier. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins.
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