“Eight, Cavendish Square. She was instinctively aware of him as she had been of Julian. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. "The only disguise I ever put on is a dress-suit, and I look as natural as a pig at a Mahomedan dinner. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. You say you need a man.
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