Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. It doesn’t seem to matter. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. ‘I went to see him because I thought he ought to know about you, having already been imposed upon by our friend Gosse. I must have this beast brought to London with me, that is seen. ‘I am not a murderer. The two sisters were very fond of one another, I believe.
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