“It’s—private. What of it?” There was a shout of laughter. "Do you mean to say you will interfere—" "I mean to say this," interrupted Wild, with contemptuous calmness, "that I'll neither allow you to leave England nor the profession you've engaged in. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. Sorry. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. She made no attempt to answer her sister’s question. ‘Don’t be silly.
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