She stood up before him, smiling faintly. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. Wood and several serving-men, all well armed, rushed into the room. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. We are going to have this chap writing books one of these days. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect.
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