Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. So the talk went on. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. Captain Hilary Roding and his inamorata, Miss Lucilla Froxfield.
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