“Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. Fetter Lane, on the left, Gray's Inn, on the right, added their supplies.
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