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Why else?’ Gerald stared at her blankly. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. Fortunately, I've secured the proof of my birth. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too. .
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