By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. Stanley. Now, however, as Gerald watched them, their heads were together and they were murmuring in French. “I will not have this slavery,” she said. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked.
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