Very slowly emerging out of a phase of stupefaction, these personal affairs and her personal problem resumed possession of her mind. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. Then making a pretence of stooping to rearrange her flowing train, she glanced at Anna, and half stopped in her progress down the room. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is.
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