CHAPTER XXVI Spurlock went out on his toes, careful lest the bamboo curtain rattle behind him. “He will probably make a statement to-night. And the food! She and Marina had done most of the cooking at home. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. .
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