He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. But, whether she likes it or not, I aim to be on hand to get her out of it. It was a brief solitude, however. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. Without her, it was lonely. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. He seemed to be hesitating between two courses of action.
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