“The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. Before midnight, I'll answer for it, it shall be done. He was aware of Hilary, in company with Lucilla and the comtesse’s daughter some few yards away, listening in suddenly.
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