Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. He's a hundred miles sou'-east of me. His smile faded. She became aware of his presence as she had never been aware of any human being in her life before. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. ‘Now,’ she said, in an imperious manner that so much reminded him of Melusine that he was obliged to suppress a grin, ‘I can see you properly. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. The Ragged Edge. Bête, she told herself fiercely. “For my own part I have come fully now into my inheritance. Even WITH the Censorship of Plays there’s hardly a decent thing to which a man can take his wife and daughters, a creeping taint of suggestion everywhere. God had never answered any of her prayers.
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