We simply can’t get away. Jack dropped the knife, and walked sullenly aside. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. After dinner Ann Veronica went into the drawing-room with Miss Stanley, and her father went up to his den for his pipe and pensive petrography. The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. Thames did not try to cheer her. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers.
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