He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “You must be the Miss Pellissier of whom David has told me so much,” he said, shyly. ‘You dare to come to me? What do you wish of me? Why have you come? I do not want you!’ She swept round on Gerald abruptly and he braced for the onslaught. Lucy did her best to avoid talking about it, but the subject was beguiling, as it almost always brought news about him from the grapevine within which Michelle was intravenously entwined. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room.
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