” Sheila scolded, but Lucy had invented a dozen reasons why she had to have her own hamper until finally Sheila got tired of it and relented. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Sheila plucked it out of Lucy’s hamper with some of Lucy’s panties and brassieres, figuring that she’d help out because she was doing a load of whites anyway. ‘But it is entirely natural that I choose my own country. Sir John hesitated.
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