The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought. Her head rose. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. The door to the library burst open. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. ‘My wife would say she is English a little. Listen, it is I. Earles drew out his cheque book.
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