Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. As she started, rearing up her head, a hand stole about her mouth and closed down hard. You might even tire of me by then, you know. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. He is in Newgate. Instantly seizing it, the young man placed it in the carriage, shut the door, and commanded his servants to drive off. She watched, puzzled, as her cavalier frowned at the newcomer, glancing from him to Melusine and back again. Gold-handled, too. I suspect he has a bit of vanity.
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