‘Bête!’ Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver another blow. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. ‘Is it soft, the way you seize me from behind? Parbleu, my heart it is flown from my chest! Boom, boom, it goes, even now. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly. She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets.
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