As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. "If things had gone smoothly," he thought, "I should have cursed the fellow's stupidity. “Why destroy me, child? There are so many secrets I 231 could tell you. After all, it is not long since that a Catholic nun in this country would have had to remain in hiding. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. She thought study would be better.
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