“The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. But he was at last persuaded that I mean you no harm, and that I might—just possibly, since I am both a gentleman and a major of militia—be able to be of more assistance to you than he himself. You complain of a condition, but you leave the correction to someone else. She said as much to him. Only a son’s another story. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. “You must be the Miss Pellissier of whom David has told me so much,” he said, shyly.
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