It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. But if you mean to take me to this Gérard, I shall know what to say to him. ‘Me, I am Mademoiselle Charvill, the granddaughter of Monsieur Jar-vis Re-men-ham. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. You see, I—I am a woman worshipper.
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