” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. ” “I say, you know, you have some pluck. ‘You’re speaking the truth. She wondered if the second part would overcome his objections? Several times the words had rushed to her tongue, to find her tongue paralysed.
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