The perception of him flooded her being. I won’t try. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. “Perhaps that is only sleeping,” he said. And he liked her. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. She and John were able to see each other many times and spent long romantic winter afternoons together.
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