"I was at Tyburn. ’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. ’ Gerald drew his breath in sharply as Lord Charvill took a step towards his granddaughter, thrusting out his head. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. She could have dined alone in her room; but courage had demanded that she face the ordeal and have done with it. ‘You do not try. Your glove will suffice. You cannot refuse me this.
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