There was still something of the look of the nun to Lilly, but a bit too
pinkly, as if she had dressed the part for Act One, but wore the ballet
skirts for Act Two underneath.
Her reaction asserted itself in her child. At thirteen Zoe wore straight
frocks of navy-blue alpaca with wide patent-leather belts and deep Eton
collars. They were mistaken sometimes, and, strangely enough, to Lilly's
invariable chagrin, for sisters, and Lilly, in her refutation, could be
smitingly swift.
At nine o'clock, to the staccato of three rings, she admitted Bruce
Visigoth, leading him down the tube of hallway. It annoyed her
unspeakably that Harry Calvert, collarless, poked out his head from a
doorway as they passed, and she was suddenly conscious of the smell of
stew. She had meant to burn an incense stick.
But she walked with that free, Hellenic stride of hers, without apology
and ahead of him.
"This is our room. Zoe is asleep there behind that screen. Won't you sit
down?"
He placed his hat and a light bamboo stick across the center table,
obviously oppressed with a sense of close quarters.
"Tell you what! Suppose we taxi over to Claremont.
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