‘Oh my God,’ uttered Gerald in some dismay. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. The end of the world seemed at hand. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. He seemed to possess infinite reserves of patience when she refused him or purposely tried to bait and anger him, but his patience only made him seem more sinister. One of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. It does sound a little horrid to talk so much about oneself and to have views.
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