The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. And the woollen-draper departed. ‘But you said—’ Gerald tutted. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. ‘Very wise,’ commented Gerald. She decided not to ask him outright if he wished to make love to her. “But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. Whatever those rights may be, whoever I am, my heart is yours. ‘I do not know your Gérard. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. But the five per cent. It’s artificially chance. Hanging about! And they start thinking and asking questions, and begin to be neither one thing nor the other. I must take you to the Suffrage people, and the Tolstoyans, and the Fabians.
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