Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Having now fairly got out of Newgate for the second time, with a heart throbbing with exultation, he hastened to make good his escape. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. ‘She didn’t behave in the least like an émigré, if these people are anything to go by. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him.
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