Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. ’ ‘Yes, that’s what I’m talking about,’ Gerald said. “We have come too close together for me to believe it. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. ‘I’ll handle her better alone. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. It’s just life, pure life, life nascent, running clear and strong. Oh, it is unbearable. That is why I am glad that she has gone to London. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Think of those days in Paris.
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