The doctor said you wrote. ‘Poor things. ’ A panel slid open and she stepped into the relative light of the little dressingroom, Kimble close behind her. ‘Sapristi,’ he shouted angrily. . Hilary started after her, but Gerald stopped him. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly.
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