Some day unless her tastes and her manner of life altered she would end in a bloway drab, every vestige of beauty gone in masses of fat.

But at that moment she was the model of a reckless Bacchante, born for the amusement and aggravation of man.
Her maddening eyes were directed on the Maiden Head inn.

Her full lips were parted in a harsh boisterous laugh; her white teeth gleamed; the blood ran riot in her veins; she was the embodiment of exuberant, semi-savage, animal life.

She danced up to the open window.

The sight of the sleeping Lance Vane had drawn her thither.
Up to that moment Lavinia Fenton's back was towards the woman.