“Why did he do that?” I asked with the utmost interest. Everard was her second husband, a fashion artist; her first was called Carlo and had something to do with a circus. Rose and I have always longed to know about them. It wasn’t any good. She turned a faintly outraged stare on me and murmured foggily: “Let the dead bury their dead.” As far as I know, Everard is alive and kicking and I never have seen how the dead can go burying anyone.
