He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” He said. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. ‘And why not?’ ‘Because,’ Gerald said matter of factly, ‘convent-bred jeune demoiselles do not commonly know how to handle either pistols or daggers. "It was the story of a man, so to speak, who had left his vitals in his native land and wandered strange paths emptily. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders. You don’t understand.
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