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During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. She traced him by his scent. Aware of the footman hovering, and the hackney coachman’s curious eyes looking down from his box, Gerald leaned a little towards her and spoke in a lowered tone. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not.
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