‘I don’t want a list of all the nuns resident in your wretched convent. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. “I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback.
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