Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. “Eight, Cavendish Square. What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. The women’s meeting was much more charged with emotional force than the Socialists’. Of course she had often heard sailors hammering out their ditties.
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