It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. "Flight is still left me," replied Trenchard. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills. ‘Oh, mon dieu. "Heaven be praised she knows me at last. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. ’ ‘You’re going to break into the house? You’re mad.
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