She felt very cool as he opened the door for her, as if she should have chic sunglasses and stiletto heels on, dark red lipstick. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford.
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