"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. You make a game with me, imbecile. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. I'm ashamed to say that I was too much terrified to scream out—but ran and hid myself. She should have slapped him but she was in shock at her own thoughts of lust that arose. . I didn’t see everything last time. ‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile.
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