They went to the gate and stopped there, gabbed with their men, and didn’t even dismount. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. With your permission, I will go on in my own way. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. ‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. She snatched about in her mind. Personally, however, I doubt if—’ ‘Charvill?’ interrupted Gerald without ceremony, all his senses at once on the alert. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her.
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