I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. She paused. Never mind, I’ve got plenty. It is safe. ‘And why not?’ ‘Because,’ Gerald said matter of factly, ‘convent-bred jeune demoiselles do not commonly know how to handle either pistols or daggers.
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