She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. ‘I feared as much. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. 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. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. " "And why not?" asked Kneebone, eagerly.
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