‘I said you were sympathique,’ she told him. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. She brought her face to his chest, turning her head sideways so he would not notice her elongated canines. They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air. It’s these damned novels. Nothing to check their proceedings but a declining habit of telling the truth and the limitations of their imaginations. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story.
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