’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. Jolly hard life for a girl, getting a living. He grew more ardent, sliding her breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. An unhappy little sigh escaped her. I was engaged to dine with your sister and her husband, and I sent a wire.
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