She held up the lamp. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. And you’re as clean as fire. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. You can tell me the rest another time. ‘And housebreaking,’ added Gerald calmly. ‘But how did she meet such a person in a convent?’ ‘He was wounded and came there for sanctuary,’ Gerald explained, adding almost through his teeth. Goopes when at home dressed simply in a pajama-shaped suit of canvas sacking tied with brown ribbons, while his wife wore a purple djibbah with a richly embroidered yoke. Nothing has gone wrong here?" "Nothing whatever," replied Ireton.
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