"The what?"
"The Mysteries of Paris," raising her thin voice. "I heard Mrs. Du Grand telling mother it was thrilling—and so wicked. She rooted it out of the old stock in the Library."
"It's not fit for you to read."
"Have you read it?" she asked sharply.
"No, and don't want to. Does your mother allow you to read such stuff?"
"Mother does not know—she would not mind."
"I'm certain she would—it's a bad—I mean a grown-up book, and not fit for you."
"I've only read as far as two chapters—and it's so stupid."
"Then mind you don't read more, Angel, nor any grown-up books, if you would like to please me. Hullo, sit tight," he added quickly, as a white bullock suddenly rose from beside a shrine, starting Sally out of her wits. She made a violent spring across the road—a spring that tested every buckle in her harness—and nearly capsized the cart. Then she broke away into a frantic gallop, with the trap rocking at her heels.
"No fear, Angel; you hold on to me," said Gascoigne.