A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. "What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. “Damn! Things are getting plainer. You can purchase the information from me whenever you're so disposed. But I shan't let him off thus.
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