‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. More importantly, she had her wits. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites.
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