He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. “Who can tell?” she said. She had a better voice than I, and the rest I suppose is only a trick. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Jackson, gallantly. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his.
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