“It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. Stop! we must shut the door, or they'll catch us.
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