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. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood. Do you think I would marry you? Rather would I marry the pig in the convent.
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