The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. He refused. Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. What about your luggage?” “I could get a few of my things, at any rate,” she said. ‘Quick, Gérard. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland. But with Gosse and the woman in prison here, there is always the chance that the whole affair may be raked up all over again. ” He rose from his chair, and walked restlessly up and down the room.
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