It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. I'd like to be alone now. So she built a shrine. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him. Gerald was instantly on the alert. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile.
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