Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. ‘Come on. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. And a right set-to there were betwixt him and Mr Jarvis, I can tell you. The air was pungent and leaden.
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