‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Wood. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ‘But how did she meet such a person in a convent?’ ‘He was wounded and came there for sanctuary,’ Gerald explained, adding almost through his teeth. On the cords being removed, he made a desperate spring at Wild, bore him to the ground, clutched at his throat, and would, infallibly, have strangled him, if the keepers had not all thrown themselves upon him, and by main force torn him off. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. " "If only…. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. ” “But the marriage itself?” Sir John asked.
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