The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. . Her lover surely did not 223 understand the implications of what he had asked for and his lust blinded him to the realities of existence even now. . She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. “You will have some tea?” she asked. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity. Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. M.
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