Send for Mr. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Her relationship with John had made her the object of desire for scores of teenage boys who had dared not previously think of her in such a way. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. Ramage. But he dismissed that because then she would ask her lover and not him all these things. She did not twitch. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. It had gone with the rest.
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