She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. The last piece was Scheherazade. Madame shrugged. The Ragged Edge. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. Only of course I must begin something else at once. She did not try to approach him. ’ ‘Now you come to mention it, it is stupid,’ Gerald said, struck.
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