She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband. “Tell me his name,” he said, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you. Cathy threw Mike a look.
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