“They look pretty old,” he said, turning them over.
She saw Beatrice’s handwriting.
“Here’s one from Beatrice Daventry,” he added, in a hard voice.
“Does she often write to you?”
“She hasn’t written for a long time.”
He thrust a finger under the envelope. Mrs. Clarke turned and again bent over her letter to Jimmy.
“Dinner is ready, Madame!”
Mrs. Clarke looked up from the writing-table at Sonia standing squarely in the doorway, then at the clock.
“Dinner! But it’s only a quarter-past seven.”