A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. ‘We needn’t murder Lucia. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. The ladies were, as usual, very gaily dressed; and as usual, also, had resorted to art to heighten their attractions— From patches, justly placed, they borrow'd graces, And with vermilion lacquer'd o'er their faces. Wait, though. Now I’d like the rest of your story.
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