‘How could you possibly know it?’ ‘I know it,’ Lucilla told him frostily, ‘because Dorothée told me that Madame Valade went off with Gerald positively purring in her ear—which is a thing he never does—and came back with him looking like the cat after cream. She cursed Satan and screamed at the heavens, praying to Mary frantically. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. You are not my husband.
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