” She looked down at the flowers, still in shock, and gently laid them over her arm like a Miss America candidate practicing a crowning ceremony at a pajama party. “Quite alone, sir. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. Or, after all, is it worth while? The Channel is a little broader than the Boulevards— but one crosses it sometimes. . “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. “Let us go to that little place at the back of the Palace. You DO understand?” “Who cares for most people?” she said, not looking at him. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. You’ll end up dead, that’s what. Later, when the Reverend Henry Dolby entered the Spurlock room, his wife and daughter trailing amusedly behind him, and beheld the strained eagerness on the two young faces, he smiled inwardly and indulgently.
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