Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. Her heartbeat quickened. Joan told me it was hung somewhere in the house, only I couldn’t remember where after all this time. “Do you believe me now?” She asked. ‘She’s little more than a schoolgirl, just out.
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