He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. I hated him. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer.
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