“They’d better not,” said Hetty. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. It was for ever. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. ‘You wouldn’t know one end of a pistol from the other. ‘Get the swords!’ ‘I’ll see to him. ‘How much does he know?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned narrowed eyes on Gerald. Some day she wanted to be loved as Marius loved Cosette; but there was another character which bit far more deeply into her mind.
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