“I’ll come to the station,” said Ann Veronica. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. The hurricane appeared to have raged in this quarter with tenfold fury. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. "My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. They compromised at length on the science course at the Tredgold Women’s College—she had already matriculated into London University from school—she came of age, and she bickered with her aunt for latch-key privileges on the strength of that and her season ticket.
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