It was an insight into the state of the chemist’s mind that at that moment nothing impressed him so forcibly as her remarkable audacity.
Monday, he thought. Monday, and possibly Tuesday, and then. . . .
Millie cleared away.
Mr Brownrigg drank his first glass of whisky and soda with a relish he did not often experience. For him the pleasure of his Saturday night libations lay in the odd sensation he experienced when really drunk.
When Henry Brownrigg was a sack of limp, uninviting humanity to his wife and the rest of the world, to himself he was a quiet, all-powerful ghost, seated, comfortable and protected, in the shell of his body, able to see and comprehend everything, but too mighty and too important to direct any of the drivelling little matters which made up his immediate world.
