The woollen-draper looked at his watch. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. She wished she had not stood up. ‘No need to shake in your boots,’ Gerald said soothingly. ’ Gerald drew his breath in sharply as Lord Charvill took a step towards his granddaughter, thrusting out his head. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Hurry to me, I entreat you.
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