She moaned as she touched him. Softly she rose to her feet. The great door of the Stone Hall was thrown open, and the sheriffs, preceded by the javelin-men, entered the room. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend.
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