I’m not half smart enough for the West End. Gifts came from Florence: rubies and emeralds, a beautiful statue of Santa Maria for their garden grotto, a gorgeous silk tapestry of a hunting scene that alone made the price of her dowry look paltry. “Who wouldn’t be for you?” The train began to move. “I know. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. You have the ideas. ‘You are too shrewd for me, ma’am.
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