“Don’t think that I have been playing the spy upon you,” he continued. This is not true at all. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves. You seemed complete—without that. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible.
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