A passage in the style of Anthony Powell beginning with the words, ‘The dwarf passed out about five o’clock…’
The dwarf passed out about five o’clock, much to Clarissa’s and Henry’s relief. His premature ‘happy hour’ was usually preceded a fractious ‘snappy hour’. It was better he slept it off. Seizing the moment Henry felt for Clarissa’s hand beneath the table. ‘What possessed you to marry that midget?’ he asked.
‘Money of course,’ she replied, slipping her hand into his. ‘A woman needs more than love when there’s a war on.’
Max, known to most as ‘the dwarf’ but to Henry as anything belittling, was making a fortune from his munitions factory while Henry, dutiful as ever, was scraping a pittance in the service of king and country. ‘Money, of course!’ he echoed resentfully. ‘No doubt the bounder’s making a bomb out of this mess.’
‘He is,’ she agreed, withdrawing her hand and fondling her diamond necklace. ‘You could say business is exploding.’
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