She had never imagined life was half so sinister as it looked to her in the beginning of these investigations. Soon the trunk, portmanteau and hat box were ready. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. One could go to him and tell him one loved him. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her.
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