Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. ‘Unheard of, ain’t it? To tell the truth, I half expected him to leave everything to one of his doxies. "One of us has got to die," he panted. Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded.
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