Mrs Sindlesham raised her brows. Clothes. “Do it now. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine. Maybe it’s his loss. Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding. When she awoke from a pleasant dream an hour later, she was shocked to find herself restrained in a bed that was not hers and not the inn’s. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret.
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