He had known that she had been his almost from the first; but he had not known that he had wanted her his until he had had to think of her as having been someone else’s.
He gazed down at her now, little, sweet, more beautiful than she had ever seemed to him before, and alone in danger; and his arms hungered to hold her; his face burned with blood running hot to press warm lips against hers. He wanted to feel with her all that any other man had felt; and she—she would not put him off. But instead, he had to judge her. So he stood away, his hands behind his back, one hand locked tight on the other wrist.
“Well,” he said, “I’m here; what do you want me to do?”
“You’ll do it for me, Gerry?”
“What?”
“Help me to Switzerland.”
“Still as Cynthia Gail, of course.”
“Yes.”
“Then you turn into—whom?”
“The German girl whom they will take into Germany.”