Manchurian Books

And then about the Letter.
"I get the whole thing a bit clearer now," he said. "Of
course, it is still cloudy in places. The making up somebody to
write to is understandable, under the circumstances. But it is
odd to have had the very Person materialise, so to speak. It
makes me wonder--well, how about burning the Letter, now we've
got it? It would be better, I think. The way things have been
going with you, if we don't destroy it, it is likely to walk off
into somebody else's pocket and cause more trouble."
So we burned it, and then the telephone rang and said the
taxi was there.
"I'll get my coat and be ready in a jiffey," he said, "and
maybe we can smuggle you into the house and no one the wiser.
We'll try anyhow."
He went into the other room and I sat by the fire and
thought. You remember that when I was planning Harold Valentine,
I had imagined him with a small, dark mustache, and deep,
passionate eyes? Well, this Mr. Grosvenor had both, or rather,
all three. And he had the loveliest smile, with no dimple. He
was, I felt, exactly the sort of man I could die for.


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