“Very likely you'll cross London in a cab with her.”
“My sister?”
“Your sister went to live somewhere in St. John's Wood, I remember.”
“St. John's Wood?”
“Tell her”—John was striving to keep his voice firm—“tell her I am happy—and cheerful—and looking strong and well, you know.”
“But you're not. You're too good, and you're wearing away in my——”
“Tell her I am often thinking of her, and if she has anything to say—anything to send—any word—any message ... it can't be displeasing to the Almighty.... But no matter! Go, go!”
The key had grated in the lock again, the lay brother was gone, and John was left alone.
“God pity and forgive me!” he muttered, and then he turned away.
The traffic in the streets was increasing every moment, and as he stumbled across the courtyard a drunken man going by the gate stopped and cried into the passage, “Helloa, there! I'm a-watchin' of ye!” The bloodhound leaped up and barked, but John hurried into the house and clashed the door.