‘Bête,’ she flung at him. "Set your prisoner free!" returned Wood. They were the only real marriages she had seen clearly. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. He was scarcely concealed when he heard the horsemen, who perceived they had overshot their mark, ride back. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured.
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