The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. But where in the world was the girl? A door led to another chamber beyond. “If I do,” he said. By the will of Mr. Ann Veronica looked up at him and found him regarding her with eyes that were almost woebegone, and into which, indeed, he was trying to throw much more expression than they could carry.
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