“There, you see!”
Molly stood up and shook her gown out, preparatory to untying its series of frontal bows.
“But if you were to marry again—” she began.
Rosina threw up an imploring hand.
“You send cold December chills down my warm June back,” she cried sharply.
Molly flung the dressing-gown upon a chair and proceeded to turn off the lights.
“I don’t want you to think I’m cross,” began an apologetic voice in the dark which descended about them.
“I wasn’t thinking of you at all.”
“What were you thinking of?”
“Of Dmitri.”