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 been there for three days, and he looks as though he were beginning to suspect"

She sighed sharply; her interest flagged.

"Ah, yes?" said Harold encouragingly.

"I'm tired of buying beef," she said resentfully.

"Oh, come, tired of going down the High Street! Why what else would you"

She felt that Harold was odious. He had not even brought her anything from London.

"All my day," she cried, "messed up with little things!"

Harold laid down his knife and fork.

"Oh, do please go on eating!"

"Yes," said Harold. "I was only looking for the mustard. What were you saying?"

"Got any plans this afternoon?" he said after luncheon, according to precedent.

"I'm going to write letters," she said, pushing past him into the drawing-room.

She shut the door behind her, leaving Harold in the hall. There was something in doing that, "living on the defensive." But were there any corners, any moments of her life for the last eight years which Harold had not pervaded? And, horrible, she had