"What is this!" cried Sir Rowland. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. These interests her world promptly, through the agency of schoolmistresses, older school-mates, her aunt, and a number of other responsible and authoritative people, assured her she must on no account think about. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. “I’m going to kill your weakness for you. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. "I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay.
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