“Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. All her life Martha had been there. Gosse would have killed me, and perhaps in the fight I might kill him. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen. “Then—then we can talk things out. Don't be frightened of her. “Sure, but it’s not like you’re married, you know. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast.
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