“You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. A glance satisfied Jonathan that the turnkey was not aware of the prisoner's escape; and he resolved not to destroy what he considered a good jest, by a premature disclosure of it. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. She breathed deeply, and he breathed sympathetically. Spurlock grew cold. The door leaned inward. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming.
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