‘You have rifled his papers. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. Or, after all, is it worth while? The Channel is a little broader than the Boulevards— but one crosses it sometimes. Deny me, if you please. And so I'll tell you what I did —" And she burst into a laugh that froze Jack's blood in his veins. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. Probably hadn't.
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