” “It cannot be!” “It is in the grimoires. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. Descending the hollow, or rather excavation,—for it was an old disused clay-pit, at the bottom of which the cottage was situated,—he speedily succeeded in arousing the ancient sibyl, and having committed Edgeworth Bess to her care, with a promise of an abundant reward in case she watched diligently over her safety, and attended to her comforts till his return,—to all which Black Mary readily agreed,—he departed with a heart lightened of half its load. I keep my finger on the pulse of things. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us.
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