Sheila was often a terror to her husband Mark, who seemed afraid of her. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. “Thank you. He rose deliberately to his feet and confronted them. To O'Higgins—for all his sordid business he was not insensible to beauty—to O'Higgins she appeared to have entered the room with the light. It’s these damned novels.
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