Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. “Well, he’s really smart. I want you to be clear what you’re really and truly up to, anyhow. ” “It would suit me. Surely his calculated desire to sit near her meant that his attention had surely been brought from its normal diversions into her realm.
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