Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. Wood; "I'll not bear it. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. With a curt command to her cavalier to get up on the box and give the direction to the interested coachman, he jumped in beside the girl and shut them both into privacy. There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits. .
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