“Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. She opened the door to him herself. It was approached from the street by a flight of broad stone steps, leading to a ponderous door, plated with iron, and secured on the inner side by huge bolts, and a lock, with wards of a prodigious size. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. She pulled the trigger. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. He had adroitly captured her and led her away from her other guests on the pretext of feigning an interest in her charitable attitude to the newly arrived French. We struggle against it at first, but in the end we have to submit. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. Maybe others that I do not know about.
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