The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. org/license). You mustn’t do things like that. ’ ‘It’s immaterial, in any event,’ Roding put in. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance.
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