‘I’ll take wine,’ the lady said briefly, turning back instantly to Hilary. Manning called. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind.
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