She continued to fan herself. Plote was sleeping or deaf. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. The hotel manager was expostulating and Ah Cum was replying by a series of expressive shrugs. Montague Hill. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved.
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