"Why it is astonishing, certainly," remarked Kneebone, "to find any woman constant—especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the case. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh.
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