Jayne. Jayne. Didn't that——? Drummle. Drummle. Not a bit of it; it made matters worse. Frightened at her failure to stir up in him some sympathetic religious belief, she determined upon strong measures[24] with regard to the child. He opposed her for a miserable year or so, but she wore him down, and the insensible little brat was placed in a convent, first in France, then in Ireland. Not long afterwards the mother died, strangely enough, of fever, the only warmth, I believe, that ever came to that woman's body. [24] Misquith. Misquith. Don't, Cayley! Jayne. Jayne. The child is living, we know. Drummle. Drummle. Yes, if you choose to call it living. Miss Tanqueray—a young woman of nineteen now—is in the Loretto convent at Armagh. She professes to have found her true vocation in a religious life, and within a month or two will take final vows. Misquith. Misquith. He ought to have removed his daughter from the convent when the mother died.
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