Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust. She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. To lose was death, quickly and mercilessly delivered. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. I’m sorry. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her.
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