Gerald doubted there would be many eager suitors, even assuming the comtesse was keen to marry off her daughter to a foreign protestant. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. I trust that she will not misunderstand me. She was nearly too giddy still to answer him. She come home within a few months of the wedding. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. He was not in love with her en désespoir which, he said, was necessary if a man would marry without getting a dowry from his wife.
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