I thought at first it was a story you'd given me, and I went on reading and got interested; and now I see it must have been written by some young woman friend of yours'-- if it's meant for a letter.' Mrs Gildea turned with a dismayed exclamation.
'Good gracious! You don't mean to say that I've given you her letter ?' 'Is it really a letter?
Do women type letters?
It reads to me much more like what the heroine of a novel would be supposed to say than an ordinary everyday girl.

If that's a flesh and blood woman I'd like to know her.' Mrs Gildea took from him the three typed pages he had in his hand.

They were certainly part of Lady Bridget's letter--almost the whole of it, for only the end and the beginning ones were missing.

In her hurried rearrangement of the wind-scattered sheets she had put these into the wrong bundle.

She ran her eye anxiously over the badly-typed slips, which, with their marginal corrections and smart, allusive jargon of a world entirely removed from Colin McKeith's experience, might easily have misled him into the belief that he was reading literary 'copy.' Of course he knew that Joan Gildea wrote novels as well as journalistic stuff.
He read her thoughts.
'You needn't worry.