Fete Fatale
“So did Jasper. He moped. Marcus, he thought, was away, as he occasionally was, to conferences, or on a difficult case at some remote farm. Jasper, I feared, was going to mope still more before the week was out, and, with that blessed shortness of canine memory, he began to forget. I, meanwhile, had not the heart to attempt any of those tactics for cheering him up which I usually employed to keep his mind off Marcus’s absences.
I was thinking. First of all I was wondering whether I dared to pay ...the first of my mourning calls that day. There were limits to my daring in defiance of Hexton custom—I was a Fabian rather than a revolutionary by temperament. Also, my embarrassed reception of the day before had made me wary. But, more than that, I was uncertain how I was to approach the crux of the matter on these visits. ‘Where were you when my husband was killed?’ spoken above the tinkle of teaspoons on bone china, seemed a preposterous intrusion, and one likely to get me nowhere at all.MoreLess
I was thinking. First of all I was wondering whether I dared to pay ...the first of my mourning calls that day. There were limits to my daring in defiance of Hexton custom—I was a Fabian rather than a revolutionary by temperament. Also, my embarrassed reception of the day before had made me wary. But, more than that, I was uncertain how I was to approach the crux of the matter on these visits. ‘Where were you when my husband was killed?’ spoken above the tinkle of teaspoons on bone china, seemed a preposterous intrusion, and one likely to get me nowhere at all.MoreLess
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