It is not the woman who speaks there. The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. It was a moment or two before Gerald, opening his eyes on the girl’s astounded expression, recollected himself sufficiently to pull out of the extraordinary impact she’d had on him. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them.
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