"Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. Sheppard, a matron offered to conduct him to her cell. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne. She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. He had more time for her. The chair, meanwhile, with its unhappy load, was transported at a brisk pace to Newgate.
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