’ Gerald sat back in his chair, thinking hard. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. He looked from the sword to the dagger with which he had brought her down here, and grimaced. I’d to go to Remenham House as well, and show Pottiswick your letter of authorisation.
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