Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort. ” She murmured. ” Capes waited patiently. "Your uncle, Sir Rowland?" "It is no idle boasting," replied the other. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. ‘Not entirely English then.
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