‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. She had intended to be quietly dignified, but he was in a smouldering rage from the beginning, and began by assuming, which alone was more than flesh and blood could stand, that the insurrection was over and that she was coming home submissively. What had been happening all this time? ‘Do you tell me he has not again left his apartment?’ ‘Only to go to some party or other Monday night,’ Kimble said.
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