She hoped that he would at long last remember his young male pride. Her thoughts were busy with the possibilities of this break in her journey. All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. And they had an idea of what men were like behind all their nicety. ‘Why did you kiss me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Gerald admitted. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free.
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