Beethoven; he’s the best of them. Annabel thought, and thought again. To-morrow I am going to Paris. And so Winifred understood him. ‘Ah, now I may see what damage Gérard has done to me,’ she muttered, crossing to the table and putting her hand to the sore place at her neck. Yet the fact remains that you do not understand me at all. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. We will find some way out of it. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. The odds were astounding and yet he had it bad.
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