Lucy knocked again. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. As he was conveyed thither, an incident occurred that produced a considerable impression on the feelings of the youthful offender. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. The doctor missed the expression of terror and dismay that flitted across Spurlock's face. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. London Bridge had suffered a degree less than most places.
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