Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. He walked unsteadily towards the door. “You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. She wrapped her legs about his hips as he raised himself upon straight arms, piercing her with his gaze as he thrust into her. “You frighten me!” He smiled at her indulgently. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. Wood, sharply. Your mind is still subtly sick.
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