The sidewalk resonated with the pounding of cold rain by the time she left the building. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours. On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled "Rosa Solis. ” “Delusion!” he muttered, glaring at her. He leapt down into the haha surrounding the terrace, and saw that the nun was there also and backing towards him, anxiously checking now and then above the level of the terrace. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. .
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