Michelle tossed her hair like a young colt flicking its tail. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. ‘Has this capitaine of yours not yet rid us of this Emile? What can he find to say to him?’ ‘Don’t be impatient,’ Gerald said, rising too and coming to draw her away from the door. “Anna!” she repeated. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “How?” 106 “The other person makes the mistake of going to sleep. Michelle walked towards the sloping Victorian stairs. For a long time neither spoke again.
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