“Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. Got detained in the City, and——” Then he met the fixed, breathless gaze of those wonderful eyes from the other side of the table, and he, too, broke off in the middle of his sentence. That was what she was trying to make him understand. He frowned. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding.
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