‘This is not love, Marthe. I chose you for your strength, your cunning, your intelligence, your great beauty. It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. Only an undermaid I was then. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. ’ The lad Kimble moved swiftly to the door and walked out of the room. This—all this swamps them. She appeared not to have realised the implications of her outburst, but clung a little to Gerald’s hands which had taken hers in a comforting clasp. After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls. E. That is why I ask you.
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