You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. I’m starving. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Afraid there'll be a love-affair. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. Perhaps I ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it pretty well.
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