The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. If you know her for the vicious, scheming wretch that she is, why in God’s name—?’ ‘She’s not a vicious, scheming wretch,’ Gerald said calmly. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. A riding-habit is all I have seen.
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