’ There was a kind of aching hunger in Gerald’s gaze. But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet. Once more he was the searcher. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. And if you dare to produce any kind of weapon at all,’ he added, taking a plain brass-barrelled little pistol from his own pocket and levelling it, ‘I will have no compunction in blowing off your head, you madcap female. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own.
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