All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. He was engaged in detesting Manning and himself in almost equal measure. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. “I could not have stayed in Paris and waited for news. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment.
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