"And life goes so queerly and keeps moving on like a tramp in front of a
policeman till you've started being gray and taking off your corset every
time you're alone because you like being comfortable better than having
a waist-line--and you've never had anything to settle you," her face
twitched, "not children--nor even the security of marriage--nothing but
work that only interests part of you--and this--"
She spread her hands at the apartment.
"Well--what a lot of nonsense I'm talking--and keeping Mr. Billett out in
the car when he's sure he has pneumonia already--how unkind of me. You must
think me a very immoral old woman, don't you, Oliver?"
"I think you're very sporting," said Oliver, truthfully.
"Not very. If I really _wanted_ Mr. Billett, you see." Her eyes sparkled.
"I'm afraid you wouldn't think me sporting at all--in that case. But then I
don't think you'd have been able to--save--anybody I really wanted as you
did Mr. Billett." She spoke slowly. "Even with that very capable looking
right hand. But in case you're still worried--"
"I'm not, really."
She paid no attention.
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