To stop her, Sebastian slapped her face and nearly dislocated her jaw. "Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way.
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