‘I do not know your Gérard. . Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding. ‘You would know more of me?’ ‘I would know everything about you,’ Gerald told her, his tone at once provocative and inviting. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. . I'll wait here. Go to her and tell her. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it.
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