“I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. Gerald, whose French was adequate from his military service abroad, was able to respond suitably to such remarks as the ladies addressed to him, but was less exercised by their fashionable dress than their decidedly careworn appearance. " "Willingly," replied Wild. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. Just an idea of mine. She had told Emile. Wild had escaped.
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