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Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. The mighty concourse became for a moment still. ’ ‘Who, Joan, who? Of whom do you speak?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham. Wood could stand it no longer. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. Like the Valades, I imagine. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. Remember what the conjuror said.
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