The lady whose husband had been Mayor of Hartlepool looked at Anna and sniffed. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. He had heard everything. “I liked him, and I never undeceived him. Perhaps it was loneliness. We don’t want no trouble, do we?’ At sight of him, everything went out of Melusine’s head but the thought of Jack Kimble. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away.
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