The Supper at Mr. ‘Don’t concern yourself,’ Gerald said calmly. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. He was consumed with desire. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in.
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