But the first one was brought home, and it was the beginning of the end. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. It is magnificent indeed. Now he would take her away from the house before killing her, and no one would find her body at all. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. Charley Pevenill was our host. Of all the entirely English women I know, you’re the only one with a French accent.
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