But as for any spark of sex in it--Mannering laughed at the
notion. No. If that really was Pamela's delusion, something must be
done to rid his little sister of it if possible. He would talk to
Beryl.
But--as always when any new responsibility presented itself to
him--a deep inner weariness rebelled. In small things as in great,
he was mentally like a man walking and working with a broken limb.
* * * * *
Arthur Chicksands stood some time that evening waiting on the
doorstep of Mrs. Strang's small house, in one of the old streets of
Westminster. 'No servants, I suppose,' he said to himself with
resignation. But it was bitterly cold, and he was relieved to hear
at last the sound of a voice and a girl's laugh inside. Pamela
opened the door to him, pulling down the sleeves of a thin black
dress over her shapely arms.
'Oh, come in. Margaret's cooking the dinner, and I've laid the
table. Bernard's just bringing up some coals, and then we're ready.'
Mr. Bernard Strang, a distinguished Home Office official, appeared
at that moment in his shirt-sleeves at the head of the kitchen
stairs, bearing a scuttle of coal in each hand.
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