Mr. Little by little, she stopped hating him. ‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people. He returned her impressive greeting almost mechanically. She twisted her fingers tightly. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Wood, disdainfully. For aught I know, they may be in the neighbourhood at this moment. “I’ll be here at one in the morning. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. “Cheveney!” she repeated.
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