“A lady, Dunster. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. "I'll tell you why," he said. "You were saying—?" "I started to say something; that is all. If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. Listen, you. Parbleu, but she was a fool. She observed a man walking on the opposite side of the way and looking toward her. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by night. “She has one, that’s why. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. Also he is ugly. He turned the water off and handed her a towel.
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