11She wore brownish speckled tweeds, a mannish shirt and tie, hard-carved walking shoes. Her stockings were just as sheer as the day before, but she wasn’t showing as much of her legs. Her black hair was glossy under a brown Robin Hood hat that might have cost fifty dollars and looked as if you could have made it with one hand out of a desk blotter.
‘Well, you do get up,’ she said, wrinkling her nose at the faded red settee, the two odd semi-easy chairs, the net curtains that needed laundering and the boy’s size library table with the venerable magazines on it to give the place a professional touch. ‘I was beginning to think perhaps you worked in bed, like Marcel Proust.’
‘Who’s he?’ I put a cigarette in my mouth and stared at her. She looked a little pale and strained, but she looked li
