"Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. As it was, the mob went on alternately hooting and huzzaing as the names of Wild and Sheppard were pronounced, while some individuals, bolder than the rest, thrust their faces into the coach-window, and assured Jack that he should never be taken to Tyburn. Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. It does not matter to him either way. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal.
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