The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. “That’s exhilarating,” said Ann Veronica. She observed a man walking on the opposite side of the way and looking toward her. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. He knocked his pipe on the teak rail. She kept opening her eyes and looking at it. She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. She understood. One doesn’t realize that even the sort of civilization one has at Morningside Park is held together with difficulty.
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