An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Returning to the audience-chamber, Blueskin had the Jew brought before him. “Is Lady Lescelles in?” he asked the butler. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. What a mercy that the blow aimed at her by the ruffian, Wild, though it brought her to the brink of the grave, should have restored her to reason! Ah! she stirs. Thames returned no answer. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. We'll have him on his way before many days.
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