I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. She told him the story of her parents, her marriage to Iovelli, the loss of her baby, the kidnapping after the miscarriage. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. She felt terrible lying to him.
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