Edgar Wallace

“ Her face, reflected in her long mirror, was serene in its repose, but within her a devil was alive, hungry for destruction. No man had roused the love of Jean Briggerland, but at least one had succeeded in bringing to life a consuming hate which, for the time being, absorbed her.
From the moment she drew her wet handkerchief across her red lips and flung the dainty thing as though it were contaminated through the open window, François Mordon was a dead man. ”

“ He listened in amazement whilst she told him what she had done to relieve her pressing needs.
"We are getting deeper and deeper into Mordon's hands," he said, shaking his head. "That is what scares me at times."
"You needn't worry about Mordon," she smiled. Her smile was a little hard. "Mordon and I are going to be married."
She was examining the toe of her shoe attentively as she spoke, and Mr. Briggerland leapt to his feet.
"What!" he squeaked. "Marry a chauffeur? A fellow I picked out of the gutter? You're mad! The fellow is a rascal who has earned the guillotine time and time again." ”

“ He was not a French gentleman, but he was anxious that this girl should think he was, and to that end had told her stories of his birth which had apparently impressed her.
"Now will you do something more for me?"
"I will do anything in the world, Jean," he cried passionately, and again a restraining hand fell on his shoulder.
"Then sit down and write; your French is so much better than mine." ”