And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance.
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