She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. “There’s twenty before you, and Mr. ” “No,” she moaned, “not that. She would take this one back with her. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it. ‘You would know more of me?’ ‘I would know everything about you,’ Gerald told her, his tone at once provocative and inviting. She did not want to go to the doctor's people; however kindly that might be, they would be only curious strangers.
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