’ ‘Gosse,’ corrected Lucilla. So I packed up and came to London next day. ” “What case?” “A divorce—or something—I don’t know. “Why don’t you wear your white blouse more often? It is the prettiest shirt you own. Yet I shall think of you to-day. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. F. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. ’ It is the Press who find her out.
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