Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark. 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. In addition, the Fadden Dance business, all out of proportion, occupied the whole foreground of her thoughts and threw a color of rebellion over everything. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place.
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