Send you the shirt. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. The man is a stranger to me. The quiet encounter and home-coming Ann Veronica and she had contemplated was entirely disorganized by this misadventure; there were no adequate explanations, and after they had settled things at Ann Veronica’s lodgings, they reached home in the early afternoon estranged and depressed, with headaches and the trumpet voice of the indomitable Kitty Brett still ringing in their ears. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. Hogarth, and Mr.
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