"As a purist," said Neville, "I must take exception to your use of the present tense."
She rounded on him. "I suppose you're in on it, whatever it is? Then you'll dam' well tell me."
"It isn't what you think!" Helen said quickly. "Truly, it isn't, Sally! Oh, I admit I liked him, but not - not enough for that!"
"If you can tell Neville the truth you can tell it to me," said Sally. "And don't pull any stuff about going to see him because of my typewriter, because it won't wash."
"Tell her," advised Neville. "She likes sordid stories."
Helen flushed. "Need you call it that?"
He sighed. "Dear pet, I told you at the outset that I considered it too utterly trite and sordid to appeal to me. Why bring that up now?"
"You don't know what it is to be desperate," she said bitterly.
"No, that's my divine detachment."
"Well, I hope you get pinched for the murder," struck in Sally. "Then what price divine detachment?"