But before he went he bowed, as to a queen.
And then Lola heard the voice again, harshly. “Go on, de Brézé, go on. Don’t be weak. Stick to your guns. You have him in the palm of your hand.”
But she shook her head. “But I’m not de Brézé. I’ve only tried to be. I’m Lola Breezy of Queen’s Road, Bayswater, and this is love.”
She opened the gate and went in to Fallaray.
[PART VIII]
I
There was a hooligan knock on Georgie Malwood’s bedroom door.
Saying “Aubrey” to herself without any sign either of irritation or petulance, she put down her book, gathered herself together, and slid off the bed. In a suit of boy’s pajamas she looked as young and undeveloped as when, at seventeen, she had married Clayburgh in the first week of the War. Her bobbed hair went into points over her ears like horns, and added to her juvenile appearance. She might have been a schoolgirl peeping at life through the keyhole, instead of a woman of twenty-four, older than Methuselah.
She unlocked the door. “Barge in,” she said, standing clear.
And Aubrey Malwood, with his six foot two of brawn and muscle, his yellow Viking hair, eyebrows and moustache, barged, as he always did.