‘You do not understand, Gérard. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Her nerves were shattered, her senses dazed by this unexpected shock. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. ’ Gerald hissed in a doubtful breath. Only sat, staring at him, a puzzled look in her face. Another horn now resounded from the further extremity of the thoroughfare; this was answered by a third; and presently a fourth, and more remote blast, took up the note of alarm. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. ’ ‘But what age are you? Do you not require an heir?’ Melusine asked, her tone shocked. ’ ‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g” and not quite managing the “l”. In the chapel she sang with an open-lunged gusto that silenced Ann Veronica altogether, and in the exercising-yard slouched round with carelessly dispersed feet.
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