But no more of that. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. “I’d have to be blown up into a thousand pieces. Promise me. ‘I do not know your Gérard. I mean—I mean to do what I can. The lips were straight and pale, the chin aggressive, the nose indomitable. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. But you belong to me—and I want you. She crooked her finger.
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