We were to live in some wretched London suburb. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. ” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off.
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