‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. He will let you live if it pleases him. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. Have you ever heard the name of Meysey Hill?” “Meysey Hill?” He repeated it after her, and she knew at once from his tone and his quick glance into her face that the name possessed some significance for him. ‘Hadn’t meant you to know,’ said the nun gruffly. It was now a quarter past twelve.
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