She gave tongue to the most urgent of her plaints. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. He stood up, apparently intending to put an arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly. He begged their attention for the next turn. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money.
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