Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. The baby boy was delivered in a sea of black blood, born dead and blue, and strangled by plague. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct. Submission to the inevitable carried her through the circumstances of her appearance before the magistrate. “Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered.
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