Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. . ‘But it is not on the horse at all, Jacques. He grunted a little with effort, and she realised the gilt frame must be heavy. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. . .
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