A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. In fact, Gerald had given order to the coachman to drive out of Golden Square and then stop around the corner. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. The blow had brought him back to the realm of sober thought.
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