“And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. ‘There is little I can do at present. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. It was not for a week or a month. ” Their eyes met for a moment. Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo. ‘Not care? For this he must be an Englishman tout à fait sympathique, and— and I know only. The word handsome was a little beyond her grasp. . She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked.
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