Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. "Fly, Captain—fly!" Aroused to a sense of the possibility of escape, Jack, who had viewed the deadly assault with savage satisfaction, burst from his captors and made for the door. How many nuns were there in England who might have occasion to spy on Lady Bicknacre’s ballroom? The presence of the French refugees took on greater significance. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her.
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