“Thank you. " The spinsters stared at her blankly. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. Earles waiting. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. We were going at a mad pace. That’s Italians for you. ‘Of course I see that,’ she said impatiently.
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