’ ‘You know, Gerald,’ Lucilla put in thoughtfully, forestalling a withering rejoinder from the captain, ‘there may be something in that. Death belongs to God, young man. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. He could scarcely blame her.
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