’ *** It must have been fate, Gerald decided, near an hour later, staring intently at the closed French windows on the raised alcove that led out to the terrace. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. “Come, daddy,” said Ann Veronica, following her husband and Miss Stanley; and in the fulness of her heart she gave a friendly squeeze to the parental arm. “I’ll buy a new one. Why don’t you make sure before you rush out like that upon a stranger?” “You were with my wife,” Hill repeated sullenly. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. You are not my husband. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. The booming voice and the energetic movements spoke plainly of hurry.
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