“Dear me! I wonder where Sir John picked her up. “But you do not know,” she whispered, “whether I am a married woman or not. “Is that a challenge?” She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. You must—you shall be mine. ‘But I find you excessively rude, Gérard. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments.
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