A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. Wood, disdainfully. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her.
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