He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. He resumed his listening. Winifred screamed. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. “Yes. I believe I am doomed to be an old maid. They’re all wonderful cooks. “In fact, yes, I do. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent.
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