Gossip was the driving force in Sheila’s existence. The evenings were dulcet and soft. She searched for it for many days that stretched into weeks before she gave up. “As if it could possibly matter what such a person thinks of you. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast. She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here.
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