The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. I wrenched this off, and in an envelope addressed to me in faded ink, I found the locket and the pearls. We mustn’t make it so. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. He jumped out of his own side once again and ran around the car to open hers in another theatrical display of chivalry.
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