She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. Get the pole out of your ass. 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. Little more’n a week. ‘I am saying so,’ protested Gerald mildly.
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