" And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. “I was sent for to go to the Hospital St. Prom a knot of idlers at a public-house, he learnt that Jonathan Wild had just ridden past, and that his setters were scouring the country in every direction. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. ‘You think so? Well, if that’s so, I know where she gets her impudence, Prudence Sindlesham. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. “Lord!” she said.
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