She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. ‘You were his daughter. ‘Her own,’ Gerald replied. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. ” He started back as though he had been shot. He dissected rather awkwardly and hurriedly, but, on the whole, effectively, and drew with an impatient directness that made up in significance what it lacked in precision. Sheppard, I'm sure, will say as much for you. “What is the good of pretending?” she said.
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