She felt the thrill race through her body. She rapped again, louder. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. “You are really a good Samaritan,” she declared. They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. She guessed Jack was having trouble finding the right piece of carving.
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