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. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. But the stone was slippery; and the tide, which here began to feel the influence of the fall, was running with frightful velocity. ’ *** It must have been fate, Gerald decided, near an hour later, staring intently at the closed French windows on the raised alcove that led out to the terrace. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. It was Annabel who caught at the paper.
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