"Do you know this picture?" he added, with another significant look, and pointing to the miniature. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. ‘I’m a soldier, missie. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. ‘Tell me, my boy. “I wish I didn’t swear. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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