“It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. He was caked with dried muck. Beauty has bloomed and faded. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us.
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