‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. That is very bad, certainly, and for this he was extremely sorry. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. She looked in the rear-view mirror. Capes and her father stood up, and her father made a belated movement toward the curtain. ‘But if there is one, how in the world did this mystery lady of yours know of it?’ ‘That, Lucy, is precisely the point that has been exercising my mind,’ Gerald said, turning his eyes once more to the group of French exiles in the alcove. "Why can't I?" "You will be compromised. But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest. The first peg was torture. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears.
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