Wimsey waited; but she did not finish the sentence.
"It's a kind of drug, of course. That's an awfully trite thing to say, but it's quite true."
"Yes, quite."
"I read detective stories too. They were about the only thing I could read. All the others had the war in them—or love ... or some damn thing I didn't want to think about."
She moved restlessly.
"You've been through it, haven't you?" said Wimsey, gently.
"Me?... well ... all this ... it isn't pleasant, you know ... the police ... and ... and everything."
"You're not really worried about the police, are you?"
She had cause to be, if she only knew it, but he buried this knowledge at the bottom of his mind, defying it to show itself.
"Everything's pretty hateful, isn't it?"