Rollo began to cavort. Yet there was nothing for her to do. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. Yes, I think we have thoroughly thrashed that one out. But he would die if he continued in this course. “Sooner or later, John, it will come to that.
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