His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. "Where did you find it!" asked Wood. The wings stopped. Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. "I'd rather you went over the last four chapters, which I haven't polished yet.
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