" "Anything, my dear," replied Wood, "What is it?" "Bury us together in one grave in Willesden churchyard. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. Mark yourself as a charitable man and you’ll be rewarded here and in Heaven. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot.
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