Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. I can be that man, the one I know you want. We made sure it was just like Gwen. You skulk in shadows, following an émigré. Unlocking a cupboard, he then took out some cold meat and other viands, with a flask of wine, and a bottle of brandy, and began to eat and drink voraciously. Getting back the ice was rather a serious affair. “Why?” He inquired. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. She moaned as his lips caressed her neck, almost to where the dress met her shoulder.
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