He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. Instead her point disengaged, dropped, and then the sword came up again and banged, flatbladed, onto Gosse’s wrist with such force that his own blade dropped from his grasp. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head. He HAD followed her! What had he followed her for? He must have followed her all the way from beyond Grosvenor Square. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. Voilà tout. But I want to know what you are doing.
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