‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. “Mr. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Plots were hatched in the provinces, where many of the old and wealthy Catholic families resided, whose zeal for the martyr of their religion (as the Chevalier was esteemed), sharpened by the persecutions they themselves endured, rendered them hearty and efficient allies. “I shall be very glad to have you for a friend,” he said, “loving friend. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. I don’t defend it.
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