He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. He began shoveling dirt over the bodies. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. “We’re in for it. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. ” She shook her head. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer.
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