CHAPTER VIII. Rousing himself, he went to the door. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. “Annabel;” he moaned. What need had she of Gerald, or anyone? Yet, if he was here, would he not make some foolish game with her and make her laugh? Instead of behaving in this fashion so stupide, and crying, crying, crying. I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. Her lips were dry and cracked. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. ‘Precisely,’ agreed Gerald. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word.
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