He came down the shop looking for her quite obviously, and took up a position on the other side against a mirror in which he was able to regard her steadfastly. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his.
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