And then, impulsively, she came forward and kissed the girl.
“Don’t feel too sore at me,” she said, and was gone before Mirabelle could make a reply.
The doctor was waiting for her in the factory.
“The spy has walked up to the canal bridge. We can go forward,” he said. “Besides,”—he had satisfaction out of this—“he cannot see over high walls.”
“What is this story about marrying Mirabelle Leicester?”
“So he has told you? Also did he tell you that—that he is going to marry her?”
“Yes, and I’ll tell you something, doctor. I’d rather he married her than you.”
“So!” said the doctor.
“I’d rather anybody else married her, except that snake of yours.”
Oberzohn looked round sharply. She had used the word quite innocently, without any thought of its application, and uttered an “Oh!” of dismay when she realized her mistake.