Chapter 18

“Yes, my lady.” “Where’s Mr. Lance?” “I don’t know, my lady.” “No letters?” “No letters this morning, my lady.” Dolly Pybus continued to ask questions as she had asked them as a round-eyed and tow-headed little egoist of five. Growth with her had been mere enlargement, a doubling or trebling of the little suburban ego. She had been a very healthy woman, without subtlety or reservation, an enlarged child with the mental make-up of a child who treated her menfolk like dolls. For years she had been full of healthy, hu…