‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. I’m not Gerald, remember. And yet he knew that his skill was equal to that of any fashionable practitioner in Hong-Kong. I can see that you were somebody, in another day. He boasted of her ability to learn to men who were a stone’s throw from having the power of the pope himself. ‘You dare to come to me? What do you wish of me? Why have you come? I do not want you!’ She swept round on Gerald abruptly and he braced for the onslaught. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. Her unnatural calm was giving way. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands.
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