She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. He would always be her friend, too. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. ‘I’m not going to arrest you, young Jack—yet. You understand me, sirrah?" "Perfectly," replied Jack. CHAPTER XVIII.
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