Sir John felt and looked several years younger. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright. I don’t have to take this shit. “It is just a look. But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe.
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