"I shall behold the shameless hussy, face to face; and, if I find her as good-looking as she's represented, I don't know what I'll do in the end; but I'll begin by scratching her eyes out. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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