238 < 30 > IN BED John drove her home after school nearly every day. 47, straightening her hat and waiting for her luggage to appear. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. ‘Tell me the truth, Melusine. Women and men had always flocked to him, covetous of his knowledge, his riches, and if all else failed, his carnal expertise. And then suddenly—a relief. One was in the Indian Civil Service and one in the rapidly developing motor business. I should like Mr. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Footman or some such. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road.
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