“We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. “What? She replied, still hazy. She had omitted that the flu had been called the Black Death and that it was a dead child that had been inside that womb, so many hundreds of years ago. “Something. ’ Sheer exasperation made Gerald release her as he broke into reluctant laughter. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue.
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