"One of us has got to die," he panted. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. She leaned back in her chair. ’ ‘Oh, is he?’ Gerald said grimly. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Is all that folly done with—for ever?” Annabel shivered ever so slightly. “So, Rhea must have known you for what you are. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see.
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