She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. The dismal tolling of St. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea.
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