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He thought briefly of Dorothea Brooke, who last night had married that decrepit old man despite Leo’s sternly telling his copy of Middlemarch that it was a bad idea.
“Mr. Page,” Mrs. Griffiths said, “have you ever met a rich man somebody didn’t want to kill?”
Page hoped the man didn’t intend to murder him. He was not in the mood for disposing of a corpse this evening.
“No.” Page laid a hand on his shoulder. “What you’re not going to do is talk about shell shock or combat fatigue or brain fuckery as if it’s a special treat that you haven’t earned.”
And so Leo went into the night, wrapped in a wool muffler that smelled of antiseptic soap and slow caresses by a rare wood fire, a reminder of an honest man who still wanted to keep him warm.
“Nobody dies in Austen,” Page said, as if that were reason enough to read and enjoy something.
“You ought to try Middlemarch. It’s filled with ghastly people who still manage not to murder one another.”
Leo didn’t think anyone had ever asked his permission to kiss him, and for a moment he savored the novelty of being treated like something worthy of care.
“I never was any good at being decent.” “Good. Thank God. I’d hate to think I was falling for something as dull as a decent man.”
