They were in different key, they had a different timbre. Anna turned deliberately away from the bedside. “You are in trouble,” he said. But there was an abiding serpent in this Eden. How will we get there, I’d like to know? We’ve no money. You are the woman I love, Anna. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. But a man is a mixed creature. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting.
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