When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne. “Eight pounds,” she plunged, and added foolishly, “fifteen pounds will see me clear of everything. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. Gold-handled, too. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. The hotel on the Peak had the aspect of a fairy castle. The truth was impossible, indecent. No doubt that was due to his helplessness.
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