“What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood,” she declared scornfully. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. The coach was slowing down, and he realised that they had arrived in Golden Square.
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