"Married twice—since she left me. Widow. Pots of money. Not bothering about her grey hair. Sails down here in her two thousand pound car. What do you make of that?"
Fanny's shrewd fresh face was solid with thought.
"Well—if you ask me—"
"I'm asking you—as a woman—"
"She's after the boy."
"Exactly," said Sorrell, picking up his soup spoon.
Life happens less crudely than our descriptions of it suggest, and the human diagrams that we draw lack the subtlety of colour and movement. It was easy for Sorrell to rush at a conclusion, and to make a sketch of Dora Duggan as he saw her, and to compare it with the Dora Sorrell of his married days. In his mental diary he wrote her down a vampire, a woman, who, having had all the satisfactions she desired from men and s*x, was seeking other satisfa
