Gerald stood quite still for a moment or two, listening intently. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. She caught at the idea. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. ‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed.
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