For this
is the street of Wardour, wherein (say all the chronicles most
absolutely) she and Geoffrey had first met and plit their troth.
"Methinks," cries she, loud and clear to the wagoner, and pointing
finger at Geoffrey, "the Devil must be between your shafts, to make a
mock of me in this conjunction, the which is truly of his own doing."
"Sweet madam," says Geoffrey (who was also called "The Ready"), "shall
I help harness you at his side? Though, for my part, I doubt 'twere
supererogant, in that he buckled you to his service or ever the priest
dipped you."
A bitter jest, this; and the thought of it still tingled on the
girl's cheek and clawed her heart when Geoffrey handed her down at the
portico of Drury Lane Theatre. A new pantomime was afoot. Geoffrey's
father (that bluff red baron) had chartered a box, was already there
with his lady and others.
Lily among peonies, Angelica sat brooding, her eyes fastened on the
stage, Geoffrey behind her chair, brooding by the same token.
Presto, he saw a flood of pink rush up her shoulders to her ears. The
"principal boy" had just skipped on to the stage. No boy at all (God
be witness), but one Mistress Tina Vandeleur, very apt in masquerado,
and seeming true boy enough to the guileless.
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