She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. ’ ‘Who, Joan, who? Of whom do you speak?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham. ” It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. ‘It is not your affair.
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