‘You will like to marry me, yes?’ she pursued. Abruptly, Gerald turned. My death, probably. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. Oh, you must believe me. She hoped that he would at long last remember his young male pride. “And let us have a talk about this—some other time. ‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat.
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