At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. This was irregular. The kissing of the book struck her as particularly odd, and then the policemen gave their evidence in staccato jerks and stereotyped phrases. Or run me through. Great sport, eh? To haul them back from the ragged edge. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction.
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