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‘You are mad,’ Gosse uttered, and only just had time to get himself up from the floor. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. "Do you know what you make me think of?" "What?" "As if you had stepped out of some old family album. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. “This means a plunge. The situation bothered him considerably. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian.
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