I’ve just seen him. And at last Ann Veronica and Miss Miniver came down the dark staircase and out into the foggy spaces of the London squares, and crossed Russell Square, Woburn Square, Gordon Square, making an oblique route to Ann Veronica’s lodging. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. The next few hours will tell. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience.
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