Next instant, Gerald felt his wrist seized in an iron grip. She pulled him down by his lapels and arched her head readily towards his neck. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. “You too sing?” he asked. Lucy looked down, noticing that Michelle had left her shoes in the entryway. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. Love-making at first hand is dull enough.
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