He went to the door. Hilary made a movement as if he would seize the opportunity to disarm the girl, but Gerald stopped him. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. Leonardo would not have married her. Could she go through with it? She must. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. He was shifting to reach his own weapon, which had fallen in between the pews at the back.
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