John said nothing. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. But to confess about Gerald— no, a thousand times. Anna crossed the street, and letting herself in at No. “It is against my husband’s orders, and I am not sure that my sister will be particularly glad to see me. Wood. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. She pointed across the road. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. . . She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come.
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