Montague Hill. You have betrayed me. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes.
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