The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. It was a moment or two before Gerald, opening his eyes on the girl’s astounded expression, recollected himself sufficiently to pull out of the extraordinary impact she’d had on him. He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat. She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done. He was the Napoleon of knavery, and established an uncontrolled empire over all the practitioners of crime. "But, I say, that girl is a queer one. There is a small yewtree west of the church. "Hear me," he cried, restraining himself with difficulty. "I cannot break my vow.
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