What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. Sir John once more looked around him. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk.
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