CHAPTER 4MUCH WORSE THAN SOMEONE UGLY
THURSDAY, they learned, was Mrs. Lovelace’s day off. Laurel, Jeff and Woody were in the Red Room, hard at work on the changes Falkoner had spilled out that morning before he left for the beach. There was a tapping on the door.
“Come in, by all means,” called Jeff, who was doing a turn at the typewriter.
The door opened hesitantly, and Mrs. Lovelace entered with a curious, sidling walk. Her crone-like face was relieved of some of its pallor by two rich patches of rouge set neatly in the hollows below her cheekbones. She was pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves.
“I’m going now,” she told them, in her unmodulated voice which never seemed to have to stop for breath. “I always go about this time, I’ll be back in the morning, there’s plenty for dinne
