She loved him. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. ’ Kimble’s widening gaze told its own tale, but still he kept his fingers on the handle of the door. He resumed his listening. He dressed mechanically; so many moves this way, so many moves that. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. “Don’t!” she said, weakly, as he had bent down and put one arm about her and seized her hands with his disengaged hand and kissed her—kissed her almost upon her lips. But, if you have any particular fancy for hanging the gentleman, who chose to take the law into his own hands—and I think your motive extremely disinterested and praiseworthy—why, it's just possible, if you make it worth my while, that your desires may be gratified.
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