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‘Gerald Alderley, I don’t know what you deserve. She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. Despite him, it was the beauty that she had inherited from her mother they had used to gain the betrothal, and it had not been easy. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free.
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