"I can't argue." She made her way up to her room and changed her wet clothes.

When she came down, Lessingham was standing on the hearth rug in the library, with a piece of buttered toast in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

His head was very neatly bound up, and he seemed quite at his ease.
"You know," he began, as he wheeled a chair up to the fire for her, "that man Griffiths doesn't like me.

He never took to me from the first, I could see that.

If it comes to that, I don't like Griffiths.