’ *** 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. Occasionally he revealed tidbits about his past after a good kill. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. I love the soles of your feet. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. ’ For the space of half a minute, Gerald continued to scowl in silent frustration.
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