Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. But this chap is good wine yet. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. ’ ‘He did, you know,’ grinned Gerald. She passed down the stairs and into the street. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. I might have told you the truth.
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