At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. She no longer felt sick or dizzy, her muscles returned to a relaxed, supple state. Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility. Then came the cable that you were in Canton, ill, but not dangerously so. Here is one verse. He’s got flowers. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me.
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