As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. “Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Fetter Lane, on the left, Gray's Inn, on the right, added their supplies.
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