All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the bridge. Sir John hesitated. ‘I must get a handkerchief. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. ‘I do not wish to be like him, but it is entirely reasonable that it should be so. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over.
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