In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,—we mean Nonesuch House. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. It ran: —————————————————————————| Bored | and | nothing |—————|—————-|—————|————|————| | will | you | dine |—————|—————-|—————|————|————| | to-night | somewhere | and |—————|—————-|—————|————|————| | shall | be | grateful —————————————————————————- | to | do | | with | me | | talk | I | | Ramage | | Ann Veronica was rather pleased by this. Dunstable’s contributions to the conversation were entirely in the form of nods; whenever Alderman Dunstable praised or blamed she nodded twice or thrice, according to the requirements of his emphasis. They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. It’s an instinct. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. It would have given me intense satisfaction to have been able to catch a French spy.
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