There was one verse that haunted and mocked her. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. ‘In this case, I will not kill him at all, even that he should have remained to wait for my letter. ‘Very wise,’ commented Gerald. He pushed her back forcefully into her seat with his lips, his body automatically responding to her kiss. Their houses became a refuge of ill repute, the source of rumor and intrigue in the highest echelons of society. It’s the sort of way a woman always does gloss over her ethical positions.
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