She was a willing prisoner and pressed close to me with a happy unrestrained laugh, and then clapped her hand to her face with an exclamation of dismay and let her head droop as we went out into the street.
“Why did you cry out?” I asked.
“It’s coming off. What shall I do?” she cried. “You shouldn’t have made me laugh. I didn’t expect to have to laugh when this was put on.”
“Thank Heaven, we can laugh as much as we like now—even at one another. Can’t you get it all off? The Jew’s going,” I said, and I took off my grey beard, eyebrows, nose and wig, with a sigh of relief.
“I’ve got all but the last bit off,” said Miralda, as she held up her face under the light of a lamp and laughed merrily.
Cicatrice, birth-mark and double chin were in one piece and adhering now by the mark. I peeled this back carefully, and then held her upturned face close to mine.
“I thought the Jew who arrested me was gone,” she said.
“It was the market woman he arrested. Miralda is free—if she wishes.”
“It doesn’t seem much like it;” and she moved in my arms.
“Does she wish it?”