The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. She shook her head. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. ’ And with that he went off to the City, stern and silent, leaving his bacon on his plate—a great slice of bacon hardly touched. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth.
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