A man doing so would be dead in a week.
"It doesn't seem to strike you," he went on, "that the poor girl's mental and moral balance depends on the successful carrying out of this ghastly farce." "I do, my dear chap." "You don't.

I wrote the thing as best I could--a labour of love.

But it's nothing like Tom Castleton's work--which she thinks is Adrian's.

To keep up the deception I had to crab it and say that the faults were mine.

Naturally she believes me." "All right," said I, again.