Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably.
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