“I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. Lonesomeness isn't my worry. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. John, I shall eat that whole tin of sardines. I was just like a sort of dummy that does things as it is told—that is to say, as the strings are pulled. ‘There is no question of a dispute. “To begin with, I was—I was in the divorce court. ” Annabel laughed derisively and took up her book. As usual the substantive sister—Prudence—did all the talking for the pair; Angelina, the shadow, offered only her submitting nods.
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