I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. “Call me Annabel. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. Out of all this we have struck a sort of harmony. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. A sinister thought edged in.
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