’ Martha looked up, belligerence in her tone. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. It is Anna again who stands between me and ruin. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. Stanley lost patience. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively.
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