Wood uttered something like an imprecation. My agent is here, and he has brought his contract for me to sign. Then he looked towards his granddaughter once more, who had flounced away to the window at her greataunt’s interruption. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. ‘God loves you, even if your father didn’t. ‘Jacques!’ He stopped, but he did not turn. Make no promises on a night where I have burdened you with such awful knowledge. She doesn’t like you because she says the Beck’s are not ‘our kind of people’ which is her code for them not being rich enough.
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