‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. ” There was silence between them. “And where are YOU going?” he said. She could feel her face turning beet red. ” The idea struck him as novel. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. ’ Exasperated, Gerald glared at her. I am yours for the making over.
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