"I kidnapped Sunday night?" asked Frances, in well-feigned surprise. "No
such romantic adventure has befallen me."
"Yes, kidnapped Sunday night," returned Castlemain, showing her teeth.
"Of course you were kidnapped! I'm sure nothing would induce so modest a
lady as the fair Jennings to go of her own free will. She would insist on
being taken by force. Ha! ha! Force!"
She laughed as though speaking in jest, but her real intent was plain to
every one that heard her. Frances, too, laughed so merrily that one might
have supposed she considered it all a joke, and her acting was far better
than Castlemain's.
"But one must keep up an appearance of virtue and must insist on being
kidnapped," said Frances, banteringly. "It not only enhances one's value,
but excuses one's fault. All these little subterfuges are necessary until
one reaches a point where one is both brazen and cheap."
Castlemain's life of shame at court had long ceased to be even a matter
of gossip, but at this time she was notoriously involved with one Jacob
Hall, a common rope dancer. Therefore my cousin's thrust went home.
"So you admit having been kidnapped?" asked Castlemain, with little
effort to conceal her vindictiveness.
"Sunday, say you?" asked Frances.
"Yes, Sunday noon, in the public streets, and Sunday night in a country
house," returned Castlemain.
"Let me see," said Frances, pausing for a moment to recall what she
had been doing at the time of the supposed kidnapping.
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