Aware of the footman hovering, and the hackney coachman’s curious eyes looking down from his box, Gerald leaned a little towards her and spoke in a lowered tone. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. Wood.
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