She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist. "Maybe he realized that he was slipping fast and thought a fine action might give him a hand-hold on life again. “Here, dis is for you. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. "You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat. She was reasonably certain why. Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly.
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