She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. ‘Why do you think I want a man ready to run to me with every move she makes?’ countered Gerald. ‘You said it. He was never known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jailfever in consequence. And if you dare to produce any kind of weapon at all,’ he added, taking a plain brass-barrelled little pistol from his own pocket and levelling it, ‘I will have no compunction in blowing off your head, you madcap female. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached.
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