When it produced no apparent discovery, he turned his hands palm outwards and shrugged. “No idea,” he said. The charade had drawn Nora’s attention to his body. A poor thing compared with John’s. A poor performer, too. “Be serious,” she said. She was beginning to emerge from the euphoria of her rebellion against John. Fear was creeping in at all sorts of edges. There were things she could wish had been done differently or not at all. Roxby was one. She had spoiled a pleasantly flirtatious relationship—which in ten years, had never strayed beyond propriety—and what had she got in return? A pocketful of dust. A poke full of dust! She doubted she could bear having him in her bed one more time. “If I were serious, you wouldn’t believe it,” he said. “Try.” “Why’ve I never married?” “Yes.” “It would be monstrous unfair on the lady.”
