They bounced without merriment over bumpy Roman roads, and by the time they arrived she was extremely nauseous. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. " "My coat, please. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. A group of ten began emerging outside the ticket area. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. A crowd was collected round the fellow, who was rapidly disposing of his stock.
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