Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. "Good Lord!—cannibals?" "Aye. Believe me, Anna. Gerald glanced at Hilary and saw the stunned look on his face. She had been so young then. I saw them both. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. Later that night, after she had cleaned herself and changed her clothes, he returned. Only a few, but enough for me to understand that some act had driven you to this part of the world, where the hunted hide. We can’t even protect them from themselves. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding.
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