His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. It is not at all comme il faut. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed. Blueskin therefore had nothing to stop him. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. ‘Ha! Just the person I want. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth.
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