“It is a great art,” she said in broken English. ” He spoke loudly. “Yes, I remember,” she said. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. She stared at his pleading face. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself. But in doing so, I most likely saved 233 your life. ” “I will think of it,” she repeated. 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. But anything is better than this.
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