CHAPTER IXGaillard rode up to the wicket and saw Denise kneeling on the path with weeds and grass tufts scattered along the stones. Paltry, misplaced labour, this, for a woman with such a body and such eyes and hair! Gaillard had his grudge against Denise, and though his impulse was to humble her, he could not forget how the morning sunlight had struck upon her that morning at the pool.
“The best of matins to you, Sanctissima,” he said. “I trust that you are rid of your sins as easily as you are rid of those weeds.”
Denise rose to her feet, his scoffing voice bringing the colour to her face. The look in Gaillard’s eyes made her hate him, a jeering, masterful, boastful look that showed that he was insolently sure of himself, and knew how to play the bully on occasions.
“What would you, m
