Tuesday, May 12, 1953
“But, my dear Honor,” said Saul, his silver-flecked brows knitted with concern, “the authorities—this Scotland Yard fellow—supposing they uncover your, how should I put it, your alias, and it occasions scrutiny? Scrutiny of a kind that—”
“Well, first of all, Britain is a free country.” Honor lit a cigarette and exhaled defiantly, as if in celebration of this fact.
“I can call myself whatever I please, and it’s nobody’s beeswax but my own.
Second of all, as you may have noticed, when a woman marries, her identity is entirely subsumed into her husband’s.
I am Mrs. Wilson, wife of Gerald Wilson, late of this parish.
” She grinned and patted his hand. “If you imagine middle-aged widows arouse the merest of interest, let alone suspicion, then you possess a rather more colorful imagination than I’ve ever given you credit for. ”