Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. Lucy slipped upstairs silently. Here would be a woman perfectly unrecognizable, strong, ruthless but just. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. "Well, if you won't come, I shall help myself, and that's unsociable," pursued the speaker, evidently, from the noise he made, suiting the action to the word. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll.
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