“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. There was no one to be seen in the great hall. He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. They did not want her. Why do you think I’m indulging in all this very un-English love talk?’ ‘But you are idiot, Gérard. My whole life shall be devoted to you, beloved girl.
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