Before she knew what had happened, Gosse turned suddenly, and vaulted one of the pews into the gap behind. Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. “You know of no one likely to have had a grudge against this man?” he asked. A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. ‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said.
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