Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. ” He faced her doggedly. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. Too many. Here we go, thought Gerald. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard.
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