It’s these damned novels. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. Ruth met him in the hall as he was following his family into the dining room. At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. ‘Dear me. I know nothing of that young lady. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. I’ll kill you, Sheila, and I’ll kill her too.
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