He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. She picked up the hand cannon. “I don’t mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences— differences in social atmospheres. Wood's displeasure; and he was the more readily induced to do this, as the conversation began to turn upon his own affairs. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. ‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world.
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