The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. Had Gosse taken it as he escaped? What could she do? Gosse now knew that she was the daughter of Mary Remenham. She made me over. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony.
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