’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. If there were any pearls, none came into the light. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. ‘Been led up the garden path by that confounded rapscallion.
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