With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose. He drove to his apartment, a second floor studio he 120 was renting above a bakery. He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles.
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