He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. I waited until he was asleep and then I tied him up with some duct tape and some old rope he had in the shed. I could not have spoken to her. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. “Hello? She’s like, your girlfriend, not mine. That is so awful.
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