She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. If it wasn’t for the fear that after all—but we won’t think of that. Gerald lifted an eyebrow. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. “Steady on!” he cried. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat.
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