‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. Forgive my daring. Wood, who appeared to be collecting her energies for a terrible explosion, "in the hope that they may prove acceptable. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. She listened with growing apprehension to the tale that Gerald told, omitting any mention of pistols and daggers, and at the end delivered herself of various expletives highly unsuited to a lady of her advanced years. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. She wanted to be alone. ‘I must see the lady who is my great-aunt.
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