Читать книгу Some Do Not... онлайн

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'I'd be better pleased if there could be an interval,' the Father said. 'It's what's called bad form.'

Sylvia became electrically rigid on her sofa.

'Bad form!' she exclaimed. 'You accuse me of bad form.' The Father slightly bowed his head like a man facing a wind.

'I do,' he said. 'It's disgraceful. It's unnatural. I'd travel a bit at least.'

She placed her hand on her long throat.

'I know what you mean,' she said,' 'you want to spare Christopher...the humiliation. The...the nausea. No doubt he'll feel nauseated. I've reckoned on that. It will give me a little of my own back.'

The Father said:

'That's enough, woman. I'll hear no more.'

Sylvia said:

'You will then. Listen here...I've always got this to look forward to: I'll settle down by that man's side. I'll be as virtuous as any woman. I've made up my mind to it and I'll be it. And I'll be bored stiff for the rest of my life. Except for one thing. I can torment that man. And I'll do it. Do you understand how I'll do it? There are many ways. But if the worst comes to the worst I can always drive him silly...by corrupting the child!' She was panting a little, and round her brown eyes the whites showed. 'I'll get even with him. I can. I know how, you see. And with you, through him, for tormenting me. I've come all the way from Brittany without stopping. I haven't slept...But I can...'