“You have a boyfriend! That’s fine by me, it’s your business, but you’d better stop sneaking around because Sheila’s got eyes in the back of her head!” He heard Sheila utter a loud percussive blast of a snore from the master bedroom. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. “I have a letter for you, and no end of messages. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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