Gerald liked her enormously. You knew me in Paris. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise and fly. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life. It disgusts me that you should touch me.
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