He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. “What can you do?” she asked. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir.
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