It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. It was excellently done, especially as she loved good dinners. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. He won’t be in uniform. “H’m!” he said, regarding the wreckage with a calmer visage. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. Diane Vorsack clicked her tongue in a “tsk”.
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