She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. The stipendiary would have done it all very differently. I’m not Gerald, remember. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. I don’t defend it. Then the foremost bowed and passed on. She mentally resolved to do her best to avoid personal encounters with him in that instant. I feel at moments as though I could bolt for it. . ‘Gerald, this is a nun’s habit. I'll try to think better of him in future.
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