He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. ‘You did not find Gosse, that is seen, but—’ ‘Gosse? Gosse? Who’s this here Gosse then?’ ‘He is the Frenchman of whom I told you. “Your best route will be via Boulogne and Folkestone at nine o’clock from the Gare du Nord.
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