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Her hair had become so matted that Sebastian had sheared it off, which made her the very mirage of a nubile young boy. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. You will be—my wife. But he didn’t marry her. Such was his fury, that if he had not been restrained by the presence of the two turnkeys, he might perhaps have anticipated the course of justice, by laying violent hands upon his victim.
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