Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. But Gerald kept to a casual note. ‘And so you sneak back,’ she threw at him, ‘like the jackal that you are. ‘You put that thing away now, missie. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you. Mrs. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal. Who says that I am not Meysey Hill? I was trying to scare you. ’ ‘And who, may I ask, is Dorothée?’ asked Gerald.
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