At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. “I would give my life for you. ‘Oh, I don’t wish to marry you. Rank ingratitude, I call it. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live. ’ ‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g” and not quite managing the “l”. ’ ‘Indeed, I’m beginning to think so,’ he said ruefully. That would be an unkind twist of fate. ‘You have every right to be angry with me.
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