. And ever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some special significance. She admired his backside as he fetched a blue towel from his bathroom. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. He'll be able to help us a little now. ’ ‘Who, Joan, who? Of whom do you speak?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham. I wish they would just get it over with.
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