She was in a very uncritical state that afternoon. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. Let your father—if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his adopted son. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. Here was one that subtly mocked her. To them all I am nothing. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension.
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