"Harkye, Sir," rejoined Darrell; "one word before I move. Gerald’s chest tightened. . The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. 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. Neither Charvill nor his heir know anything of your presence in England. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. She was silent. “As I love you. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. It's of no use. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. It’s a pure joy of giving—giving to YOU.
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