The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. “I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. No more. It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought. A buxom piece, who looked, Gerald decided, as if she would be more at home in an amorous engagement in a hayloft than sitting demurely in a ballroom. "I told you that before," rejoined Wood, testily.
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