I cannot do it, David. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. ‘He told me everything, if you mean Gerald. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. ‘On the contrary,’ Gerald argued, frowning. ‘But you,’ she said in the friendliest way imaginable, ‘are a person tout à fait sympathique, I think. Can you afford to give this time? There are your own affairs to think of. It seems to me very silly.
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