’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. Was the man debating whether or no to tell the truth? A grimace played about Valade’s mouth and the general waited, maintaining his own rigid pose.
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