You’re dealing with me now, not Gerald. ” She smiled grimly at the recollection of that lunch—tea and roll at a cheap café. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. ’ He fitted the hat onto her head, and was aware as he did so of her eyes watching his face. But I was portentous, I can assure you. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. Wild. You'll find the benefit of it by and by. 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. He seemed to have shrunken in his seat.
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