The white loses power, and as it rolls to a stop about three inches from the black ball, the green travels delicately, almost nonchalantly, into the c...rner pocket, the soft click of it hitting the other balls, already casualties to her skill, the only announcement of success. She doesn’t blink. The white sits on a line with the black, but isn’t straight to the pocket. It’s an angled shot, needing an edge and a master’s touch – too much force will push the ball off line, and too little will deny. Marianne knew how Sophie felt about Cole and she’d done her best to edit out the worst of the debauchery when relaying tales of his wife’s exploits in Europe . Sophie had read her friend’s letters with a mixture of disgust and incomprehension. Bella had thought two midgets and an Irish Wolfhound were an adequate substitute for Cole? Since her death, Bella’s former intimates and thrown over lovers – legion in number – had been writing to Cole. Ostensibly, they wrote to express their condolences. More

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