It was then for the first time she remembered that she had said nothing to her sister of the man in the hospital. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. It was too good to be true. “I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver. You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. I’ll have to think of something else.
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