She would flee to the wild fastnesses, the places where there were no overarching systems of any use, where she could blend with the unstable populace and kill in relative peace. He would always be her friend, too. Charley Pevenill was our host. ” “To a friend?” “To lodgings—alone. ‘God loves you, even if your father didn’t. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously.
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