Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. She attempted by a sheer act of will to end the scene, to will herself out of it anywhere. “Do you know him?” Lucy replied, “No, I haven’t met him. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. That is why you came here, isn’t it?’ ‘Alors, now we know who is the spy, Monsieur Gérard. “Home, of course,” she answered.
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