She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Just as he had told Gerald would be the case, there was nothing of interest to hear, especially as he had met the girl in London only last night. Directly he saw Anna he accosted her. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque.
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