She studied the face and tried to visualize the body, clothed in the dress which had created the spinsters' astonishment. “Yes,” she said at last, “it is firm and affectionate. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment.
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