That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. ‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. I had a hunch. Though," said the thieftaker, with a complacent smile, "all the world seems to tremble at it. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. Never mind.
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