“DEAR MR. "Promise me that. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet. I don’t idealize you. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy.
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