She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. In twenty minutes we meet in the hall, remember. She slipped on a white clingy imitation silk tee-shirt, a sexy number that Shari had bought on super-sale at the Limited. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded.
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