It was now a quarter past twelve. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. ‘And I am delighted to see that you are ready to admit that the Charvills—or rather the Valades—are indeed your affair. Jonathan laughed scornfully. Then the lady smiled and her radiance, even in the darkness, warmed Gerald unexpectedly. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own. "Relating to the father of the boy—Thames Darrell," supplied Jonathan.
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