‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. Just let him down easy, Lucy. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. Her voice recalled him. There was a maiden aunt who lived in the North who might let her live there for a few weeks until she disappeared. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. . . It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood.
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