“And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. "For the caption!" replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols from his pockets. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. A woman has a perfect right to choose her own husband, but Nigel seemed to think that there was something a little mysterious about your treatment of him.
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