‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. I have counted you, and always hoped to count you, the best of my friends. Period trying desperately to cover her nudity with a dingy hand towel she had found lying on the floor in a corner. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. He could not know about the Remenham connection, could he? No one knew but her father and Martha.
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