I can’t forget about your sister. I would not have him know—now—for the world. I didn’t realize—I don’t see how I can get out of it now. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head. We shall have him on his return. I'll call it my wedding gift. . . I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean.
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