Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. " "I can't! I can't—not now!" "Bat!—can't you see that she's the kind who would understand and forgive? She loves you. I will arise myself. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. He dressed mechanically; so many moves this way, so many moves that. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried. Her hair is like, white blonde, but trust me, it’s not her natural color.
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