She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ agreed Gerald with a grin. Unlocking it, he entered the chamber, which by no means belied its external appearance. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering.
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