She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. “I’m sorry I told you that, Michelle. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. ‘I dropped the lantern,’ Jack’s muffled voice told her. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation.
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