Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. I never see them, they never even call. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed.
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