She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. She knew very well that a new thing was stirring in her. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. ‘Went to the dogs, did Jarvis, after Mary died. He turned to Mrs. He would know her address to-morrow.
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