She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. His smile faded. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. I heard John was talking about you again from Jenny McIntyre. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. Tonight Lucy doled out outré physiological theories of boys and their overactive hormones. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. “You will come back, won’t you?” He nodded cheerfully. Under her feet lay intricate mosaics, and each warm hall was festooned in tapestries.
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