How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. “There’s the classes,” said Constance, the well-informed. Besides, she had admitted her identity. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark.
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