At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. What’s the name of the happy man?” Gwen owned to “Fortescue. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. I don’t know why that should be so acutely humiliating.
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