“Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround.
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