Part 8 And as she sat on her bed that night, musing and half-undressed, she began to run one hand down her arm and scrutinize the soft flow of muscle under her skin. The door of cabin 2 was open. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. She moved then, fast, taking refuge behind a Chinese screen that was set beside the four-poster at the back of the room. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength.
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