Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. Thames, you needn't tidy yourself, as you've hurt your arm. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. Furiously, she dashed his hands away. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. She dare not risk it. There was the world besides, looming darker and larger. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip.
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