‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. With each step his heartbeat increased exponentially. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. A door led to the inner room; and it was evident from the peals of merriment, and other noises, that, ever and anon, resounded from within, that this chamber was occupied by the Marquis and his friends.
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