Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. Nor Jacques. Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. One of those hanging moments ensued— hypnotic.
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