“I’m so glad you’re here, Peter,” she said. Stanley, whose family had been by any reckoning inconsiderable—to use the kindliest term. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. I figured it would hurt your feelings if you knew I still talked to him, so I kept my mouth shut. Hang it, there must be something about her that will give it away. Perhaps I am still mad. Like the flaws of an old marble.
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