‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. The door was fastened by a catch and a latch with an inside key, to which at night a chain and two bolts were added. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. Ruth shivered; she was cold. I’m not a lovesick boy. ‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it.
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