He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. She helped herself to the remainder of the slightly congealed bacon, and reverted to the problem of getting her luggage out of the house. It is what I have wanted, what I have meant all along. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. During this colloquy, Jack had contrived unobserved to put on the hood and cloak, and being about the size of the rightful owner, presented a very tolerable resemblance to her. He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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