He had attempted to move her by unfair, insidious means.
He fell back, crimson from chin to brow.

He stifled the wrath that welled up, threatening to choke him.

He was a short-necked man, of the sort--as Trenchard had once reminded him--that falls a prey to apoplexy, and surely he was never nearer it than at that moment.

He made her a profound bow, bending himself almost in two before her in a very irony of deference; then, drawing himself up again, he turned and left her.
The plot which with some pride he had hatched and the reward he looked to cull from it, were now to his soul as ashes to his lips.

What could it profit him to destroy Monmouth so that Anthony Wilding lived?
For whether she loved Wilding or not, she was Wilding's wife.