’ ‘Who, Joan, who? Of whom do you speak?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. ’ ‘That’s better.
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