But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. As soon as they had got out, the vehicle was drawn up at the back of a tree near the cage. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. And now the fiend Gosse had taken even that away from her. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. ‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed.
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