Gerald stayed him. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. Pilgrim's Progress, The Life of Martin Luther and Alice in Wonderland (the only fairy-story she had been permitted to read) were the sum total of her library. ‘What happened, ma’am?’ enquired Gerald gently. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice. But at least it gave her more time. “I’m not sure whether we don’t rather overdo all this higher education,” he said, with an effect of conveying profound meanings.
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