Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. ‘But if there is one, how in the world did this mystery lady of yours know of it?’ ‘That, Lucy, is precisely the point that has been exercising my mind,’ Gerald said, turning his eyes once more to the group of French exiles in the alcove. ‘I must, for that the pig has already gone to monsieur le baron. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. Again the chalky pallor spread even to her lips, her eyes became lit with the old terror.
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