’ Mrs Sindlesham’s lips twitched. It was an odd room, used principally for the reception of guests and visiting dignitaries, packed from end to end with ill-assorted sofas and padded chairs. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. She paused for a moment. Voilà tout. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. ’ ‘Don’t be stuffy, Hilary,’ admonished his betrothed.
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