CHAPTER 20Man with a Headache
Miss Abigail Ryder’s living room was a pleasant place on an October afternoon at tea time. Apple wood, living up to its reputation, sang in the white fireplace. Firelight shone on old brasses and copper, and on the gilt of gold mirrors. Purple and white asters in the copper pots matched the fading chintzes and window curtains.
It was the twelfth, a holiday, and Gamadge had stayed over. He sat opposite his cousin and drank tea from a mauve-and-gilt cup.
“Blanche called me from New York this morning,” said Abby.
“She’ll be better off there. She’ll find somebody,” said Gamadge.
“Henry, you are so vulgar.”
“Do you think she won’t?”
“No matter how badly she may have behaved, I shouldn’t blame her if she never did forgive Walter for thinking she committed the
