Once she heard him mutter, and she leaned down. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. "Why you pretended not to recognize the photograph of the young fellow you toted around these diggings all day yesterday. Who is the beautiful intruder? And why does she disguise herself as a nun? Why is she involved in an enterprise both foolhardy and dangerous? The girl’s accent suggests an émigré but Mademoiselle insists she is English. I didn't think.
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