The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’ ‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. Capes had the gift of easy, unaffected writing, coupled with very clear and logical thinking, and to follow his written thought gave her the sensation of cutting things with a perfectly new, perfectly sharp knife. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out.
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