A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. ‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat.
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