She took up a book and threw it down again. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. He was a tall man and fair, with bluish eyes that were rather protuberant, and long white hands of which he made a display. ” He declared. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said.
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