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No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. ‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. But this is not sufficient. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely.
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