The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. But this was a vicomte’s sister. ‘Trespasses,’ supplied Gerald. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. A wrathful God was watching him.
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