And then there was Sally just off the King's Road
I wonder if Winston Churchill ever practiced and practiced a speech, and then when he gave it, it came out all hateful accusations and vitriol and not at all what he wanted to say.
She was being all lovely and slipped-the-surly-bonds-of-Earth Sally, only even more so, and then she said she was mates with Sir Robert B, or more than mates I suppose, and from then on all I could think about was that horrible night. I wanted to beat a hasty retreat, but my legs wouldn't move and my mouth wouldn't stop.
The really stupid thing is that I desperately need a Letter of Transit if I'm to get back into the City and out of Wellington Wells, and Sally offered to get me one, and so I cleverly chased her off.
The thing is, I don't trust her. She was always so wonderful when she was there, but a girl like Sally always has so many better places to be, and better people to be with, or worse people that she prefers anyway for some reason. And sometimes she'd just hide in Percy's old room in the attic and not come down. Who knows what's going on with her now?
I could try again. She's living on the King's Road somewhere, with bars on her windows and an unlocked door. Couldn't be that hard to find and I could hardly be more of an arse than just now, so there's nothing to lose except my pride, again.
I can swallow my pride, for Percy's sake.