95 The officer showed her into the sleepy suburban police station, a hub of inactivity on Sunday night except for herself and a slightly drunk woman who had been brought in for DUI. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. Sebastian traveled at seventy, eighty, then one-hundred down the freeway. You met Sir Rowland at the house of a Romisch priest, Father Spencer. She looked at the suitcase sadly and stashed it underneath her bed. So long as a man behaves himself, I can't refuse him liquor. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. Supposing they find you and take you away?—and she unprepared? Have you thought of that? Why did you marry her?" "God alone knows!" "And you don't love her! What kind of a woman do you want, anyhow?"—with rising anger. Everything. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. They were the same.
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