"As I said before, I have little reliance upon professions of gratitude. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Nigel Ennison was my very good friend, but there is not the slightest reason for your not marrying him, if you wish to do so. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. A broken laugh followed the action. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. The old man was conducted to Jack's cell by the turnkey, who remained near him during their interview. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate.
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