Oh, I was so tired--so weary. I could hear my jaw crack at the corners where the strings are, each time I yawned. And not without reason. For I was nearly eighteen and had been two years in the nunnery of the holy St. Brigida of Cheverney. Lord, Lord! how I hated it--I, Margaret Douglas, who had been the petted of great men and strong men ever since I could remember--ay, and before! I, who had known Maud Lindsay (called the “Snarer of Hearts”) in her best time, who had sworn, when no more than thirteen, that I would outdo her--to end thus, to be despatched like a bale of goods at sixteen years of age out of Scotland! (Well, _that_ I would not have minded so greatly. ’Tis a dull sour place, …
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