It comforts him when he is most forlorn. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving. ” She took the blue box from her hoodie and held it towards him. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. “I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets.
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