There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. ‘We may have to,’ Gerald answered thoughtfully, staring at the window to one side. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. ‘He isn’t Valade, and the Comtesse de St Erme is absolutely furious. Anna nodded as she briskly crossed the pavement. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. Wild. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom.
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