Do I blow off the head of a man with whom I am in love?’ ‘That,’ said Gerald, disengaging his hand and at last drawing her into his arms, ‘deserves a reward. Why don’t I just go and get the key from Pottiswick?’ Alderley flicked a glance back at him over his shoulder. Give me the keys and the light. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. No! That was impossible. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. There all the loose characters thronged, assignations were openly made, and the spectators diverted themselves with the vagaries of its miserable inhabitants. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. Epithalamy might do.
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