She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. ‘How is this? Proo-den-ss. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Wood; "and I did so to see how far your effrontery would carry you. I'll be feeling fine in no time. Man's fate is in his own hands. He buys his own clothes, chooses his own company, makes his own way of living.
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