She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. But he didn’t marry her. Admire her as much as you choose—at a distance. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. The baby crawled towards them, seeking their blood. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. “It’s about forty pounds.
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