Her stifled misery had betrayed her. ‘How could you possibly know it?’ ‘I know it,’ Lucilla told him frostily, ‘because Dorothée told me that Madame Valade went off with Gerald positively purring in her ear—which is a thing he never does—and came back with him looking like the cat after cream. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. I’m sorry. Ireton and his friends to taste it.
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