“Forgive my—what was it Agnes called it?—‘appalling familiarity’ by remaining while you slept. I wasn’t certain if you were well.” “Bless Agnes,” I said, rubbing my eyes. To be frank with myself, it is far more intimate than propriety allows. But I cried against the man for half an hour while on a train to London a fortnight ago, so appalling familiarity has already been breached. To say nothing of notes through the wall. Nor time spent in his studio. Dear me. I am a socially loose woman.
