“Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. Trodger laid down their muskets and turned on them. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Silly, isn’t it? Undisciplined.
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