He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. She made an abrupt personal appeal. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. He grew more ardent, sliding her breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown. Taking her limbs was the only thing I could do short of killing her. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ warned Gerald, in the voice generally reserved for his men.
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