Why do you think I’m indulging in all this very un-English love talk?’ ‘But you are idiot, Gérard. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Suddenly she understood. Her husband was prouder of her every day. ‘I have only borrowed it. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. In fact he was thinking of other things. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him.
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