Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. I looked upon you from the first as the most promising of my pupils. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. She shuddered. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. “I’m sure we’re all delighted to see you again, Mr.
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