Clarence Harley-Shawe walked over to the chair where he had laid his clothes an hour previously. He pulled on his trousers before he glanced across at her. Mary was sitting up among the ruffled covers, her hair hanging in tumbled disarray about her shoulders and the dark pink of her nipples vivid against the whiteness of her breasts. Once the sight of her thus would have stirred him but now he had become tired of her charms. He had taken her tonight because he had nothing better to do before he joined his friends at the gambling house. That was the truth of it. And now he wanted rid of her once and for all. ‘Please, Clarence.’ As her eyes met his, Mary’s lips trembled. ‘Tell me you don’t mean it.’ ‘Bernard isn’t so bad, is he?’ He reached for his silk shirt. ‘And he is enamoured of you, m’dear.’ ‘Clarence, please.’ She began to cry. ‘I suggest you consider his offer. You won’t get better.’ ‘But what of us? I-I thought you loved me.You said you loved me.
