’ ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong. He suckled at her shoulder blade as he slid her panties down. You went even to our rooms and saw my sister. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t. Wood; but they never come now.
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