He will say who it was. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. It seemed to her at this moment that there was nothing left for her to do. ‘Parbleu, how you make me talk!’ ‘Your secret is safe with me, I promise you,’ Gerald said reassuringly. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. . She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost.
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