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She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. ‘Of course I see that,’ she said impatiently. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. But she does not resemble you in any other way. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat.
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