He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen. ‘For once, you’re talking like a sensible man. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly.
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