That was an admission all right. "I witnessed the bet. We can take our things up with us and stay at the Continental or the Ritz. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low. Grace-church Street was entirely deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along it. This is a joke of yours. Not fit to be dust on your boots. The Wastrel did not relish this. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. Her voice recalled him.
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