She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. And yet the moment I am safely out of the way you are content to dress yourself in my rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all on my reputation. We'll have some fun down there at my place, Spurlock; but we'll probably bore your wife to death. “Limp,” he answered. Absolutely. He had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed.
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