Sheila knew that the Eat & Shop on the corner of 53rd and Oleson was a flimsy front for an all-in-the-family whorehouse. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. Of all the entirely English women I know, you’re the only one with a French accent. ‘Dieu du ciel, but answer me!’ Martha’s eyes were swimming again, and she reached out. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast.
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