Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. The trio of girls approached the newly laid cement curb, where throngs of young girls in pink lip-gloss fanned and preened like peacocks as rich boys circled round, revving the engines of their father's red cars. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. "Will you plead?" demanded Wild, harshly. I told you, Sir Rowland," he added, turning to the knight, and chuckling, "the devil never deserts me. I'd like to shake you until your bones rattled; but the bones of a Roundhead wouldn't rattle to any purpose.
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