‘She wouldn’t tell me. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. “Don’t be childish, Annabel. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. How are you?” “I’m fine,” she said, unaware of all events except for the voice on the other line. “Lucy Albert. Spurling. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. “What a little brick!” he murmured. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. But if you don't want to get up, maybe three times ten days.
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